Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early period.
Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma.
Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments.
The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came-a gentle sorrow-but not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness- Miss Taylor married.
It was Miss Taylor's loss which first brought grief.
It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance.
The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening.
Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend.
The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day.
A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed Isabella's marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection.
She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.
He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really belong, afforded her no equals.
The Woodhouses were first in consequence there.
She had many acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day.
It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it necessary to be cheerful.
His spirits required support.
He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.
Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner,
What a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!
Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a good wife- and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her own?
This is three times as large- And you have never any odd humours, my dear.
Randalls is such a distance.
I could not walk half so far.
We must go in the carriage, to be sure.
But James will not like to put the horses to for such a little way- and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our visit?
You know we have settled all that already.
We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last night.
And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going to Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there.
I only doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else.
That was your doing, papa.
You got Hannah that good place.
Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned her-James is so obliged to you!
It was very lucky, for I would not have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a great opinion of her.
Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it.
I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about her that she is used to see.
Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us.
He will be able to tell her how we all are.
Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own.
The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary.
Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband.
He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London.
He had returned to a late dinner, after some days'absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square.
It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time.
Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after " poor Isabella " and her children were answered most satisfactorily.
When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, " It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us.
I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk.
It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire.
I wish you may not catch cold.
that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here.
It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast.
I wanted them to put off the wedding.
Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well.
I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence- At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two.
You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean _you_.
Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know-in a joke-it is all a joke.
We always say what we like to one another.
Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one.
The chances are that she must be a gainer.
Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen.
Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day.
Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles.
Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married.
I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing.
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her.
Her father fondly replied, " Ah!
my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass.
Pray do not make any more matches.
It is the greatest amusement in the world!
And after such success, you know- Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again.
Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again.
Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him.
All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it.
I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making.
Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage.
A worthy employment for a young lady's mind!
You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be said.
There is always some talent in it.
And as to my poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any claim to it.
You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third-a something between the do-nothing and the do-all.
If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all.
I think you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that.
You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference.
You like Mr. Elton, papa- I must look about for a wife for him.
I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing him a service.
But if you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day.
That will be a much better thing.
I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet him.
Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife.
Depend upon it, a man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and property.
It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness.
Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best.
She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.
They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved.
A complete change of life became desirable.
He quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening.
It was a concern which brought just employment enough.
He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away.
He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through.
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age.
It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance.
His father had no apprehension of it.
The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear.
He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too.
He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a kind of common concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his life.
His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never achieved.
Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place.
There was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit.
Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion.
For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received.
I understand it was a very handsome letter, indeed.
Mr. Woodhouse told me of it.
Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life.
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter.
She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her.
But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, " Ah, poor Miss Taylor!
She would be very glad to stay.
There was no recovering Miss Taylor-nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.
The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up.
His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself.
What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it.
He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject.
With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe it.
Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way.
He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms.
Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such.
Had it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille.
She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can excite.
Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.
Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into outward respect.
She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness.
Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible.
And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will.
It was her own universal good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders.
The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself.
She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.
It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church.
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston.
She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully anticipated.
A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody.
Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder.
This was all that was generally known of her history.
She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her.
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired.
She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance.
Encouragement should be given.
Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its connexions.
The acquaintance she had already formed were unworthy of her.
The friends from whom she had just parted, though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm.
It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.
Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings were in sad warfare.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say:
An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome.
Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body.
I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see-one of our small eggs will not hurt you.
Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a _little_ bit of tart-a _very_ little bit.
Ours are all apple-tarts.
You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here.
I do not advise the custard.
Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine?
A _small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water?
I do not think it could disagree with you.
Emma allowed her father to talk-but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy.
The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions.
Harriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing.
Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their satisfaction in each other.
As a walking companion, Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her.
In that respect Mrs. Weston's loss had been important.
Her father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston's marriage her exercise had been too much confined.
She had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her privileges.
But in every respect, as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs.
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up to.
Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.
Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly the young friend she wanted-exactly the something which her home required.
Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question.
Two such could never be granted.
Two such she did not want.
It was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent.
Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.
Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful.
For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.
Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell.
She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain.
Emma was obliged to fancy what she liked-but she could never believe that in the same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth.
Harriet had no penetration.
She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.
Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great part of the conversation-and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole.
But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders of the place.
For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose.
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it.
Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging.
He had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging.
He had his shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her.
She was very fond of singing.
He could sing a little himself.
She believed he was very clever, and understood every thing.
He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country.
She believed every body spoke well of him.
His mother and sisters were very fond of him.
Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband.
Not that she _wanted_ him to marry.
She was in no hurry at all.
Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her.
He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats-but he reads all _them_ to himself.
But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining.
And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield.
He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey.
He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can.
not handsome-not at all handsome.
I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now.
One does not, you know, after a time.
But did you never see him?
He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston.
He has passed you very often.
A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity.
The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do.
A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other.
But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it.
It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed-I mean by sight.
I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well.
What do you imagine his age to be?
That is too young to settle.
His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry.
They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it.
Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable.
Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!
Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make-cannot be at all beforehand with the world.
But they live very comfortably.
They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year.
The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your associates.
There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading you.
But while I visit at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any body can do.
Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body but what had had some education-and been very well brought up.
However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against your's-and I am sure I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife.
I shall always have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me.
But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can help it.
Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love.
The young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious difficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own.
They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell road.
He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion.
Emma was not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin.
His appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's inclination.
Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder.
Mr. Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was.
They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose.
It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls.
He did not think we ever walked this road.
He thought we walked towards Randalls most days.
He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet.
He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow.
So very odd we should happen to meet!
Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected?
What do you think of him?
Do you think him so very plain?
I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air.
I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility.
At Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men.
I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature-and rather wondering at yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before.
Do not you begin to feel that now?
I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here.
He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley.
I see the difference plain enough.
But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!
You might not see one in a hundred with _gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley.
But he is not the only gentleman you have been lately used to.
What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton?
Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_.
Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent.
You must see the difference.
But Mr. Weston is almost an old man.
Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty.
The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes.
What is passable in youth is detestable in later age.
Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston's time of life?
He will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss.
He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else-which is just as it should be, for a thriving man.
What has he to do with books?
And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very rich man in time-and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb _us_.
She, therefore, said no more for some time.
They have more gentleness.
They might be more safely held up as a pattern.
There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_, because there is so much good-humour with it-but that would not do to be copied.
Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright, decided, commanding sort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about copying him, he would not be sufferable.
On the contrary, I think a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model.
Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle.
He seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late.
I do not know whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be.
If he means any thing, it must be to please you.
Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?
She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.
Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young farmer out of Harriet's head.
She thought it would be an excellent match; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her to have much merit in planning it.
She feared it was what every body else must think of and predict.
It was not likely, however, that any body should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had entered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet's coming to Hartfield.
The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of its expediency.
Mr. Elton's situation was most suitable, quite the gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet.
And he was really a very pleasing young man, a young man whom any woman not fastidious might like.
Do you really think it a bad thing?why so?
Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good.
I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure.
How very differently we feel- Not think they will do each other any good!
This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.
We were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with.
Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case.
You are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life.
I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith.
She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be.
But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself.
I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read regularly through-and very good lists they were-very well chosen, and very neatly arranged-sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule.
The list she drew up when only fourteen-I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now.
But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from Emma.
She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the understanding.
Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing- You never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished- You know you could not.
Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family.
At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen.
She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident.
And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all.
In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her.
She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her.
I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held.
But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield.
There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr.
We will not despair, however.
Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him.
No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter.
I only name possibilities.
I do not pretend to Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing.
I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune- But Harriet Smith-I have not half done about Harriet Smith.
I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have.
She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing.
She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.
Her ignorance is hourly flattery.
How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority?
And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_ cannot gain by the acquaintance.
Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to.
She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home.
I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life- They only give a little polish.
How well she looked last night!
you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you?
Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty.
Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether-face and figure?
But I am a partial old friend.
regular features, open countenance, with a complexion!
what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!
There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance.
One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;' now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health.
She is loveliness itself.
Mr. Knightley, is not she?
I love to look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain.
Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way.
Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.
With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature.
Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend?
No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times.
Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella.
John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about the children.
I am sure of having their opinions with me.
It has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office.
It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to.
I will keep my ill-humour to myself.
I have a very sincere interest in Emma.
Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great.
There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma.
I wonder what will become of her!
But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for.
It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object.
I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good.
But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.
I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you.
Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible.
There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to " What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?
convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield.
She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton's being in the fairest way of falling in love, if not in love already.
She had no scruple with regard to him.
He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she could not suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add.
His perception of the striking improvement of Harriet's manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment.
She was a beautiful creature when she came to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she received from nature.
She had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself.
So much superadded decision of character!
Skilful has been the hand!
I never met with a disposition more truly amiable.
And it was spoken with a sort of sighing animation, which had a vast deal of the lover.
She was not less pleased another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have Harriet's picture.
said she: " did you ever sit for your picture?
Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say, with a very interesting naivete,
No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,
I would give any money for it.
I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.
You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and was thought to have a tolerable eye in general.
But from one cause or another, I gave it up in disgust.
But really, I could almost venture, if Harriet would sit to me.
It would be such a delight to have her picture!
Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in favour of your friend.
I know what your drawings are.
How could you suppose me ignorant?
Is not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?
Yes, good man- thought Emma-but what has all that to do with taking likenesses?
You know nothing of drawing.
Don't pretend to be in raptures about mine.
Keep your raptures for Harriet's face.
Harriet's features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch.
As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession.
She thinks so little of her own beauty.
Did not you observe her manner of answering me?
How completely it meant, 'why should my picture be drawn?'
yes, I observed it, I assure you.
But still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.
Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made; and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of both the others.
Emma wished to go to work directly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that they might decide together on the best size for Harriet.
Her many beginnings were displayed.
Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn.
She had always wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to.
She played and sang- and drew in almost every style; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not to have failed of.
She was not much deceived as to her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved.
There was merit in every drawing-in the least finished, perhaps the most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions would have been the same.
They were both in ecstasies.
A likeness pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse's performances must be capital.
There is my father-another of my father-but the idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore.
Mrs. Weston again, and again, and again, you see.
always my kindest friend on every occasion.
She would sit whenever I asked her.
There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure- and the face not unlike.
I should have made a good likeness of her, if she would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her four children that she would not be quiet.
Then, here come all my attempts at three of those four children- there they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of them might do for any one of the rest.
Here is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby.
I took him as he was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would wish to see.
He had nestled down his head most conveniently.
I am rather proud of little George.
The corner of the sofa is very good.
Then here is my last,"unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small size, whole-length --" my last and my best-my brother, Mr. John Knightley- This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness.
We had had a great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all.
But for Harriet's sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case _at_ _present_, I will break my resolution now.
Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was repeating, " No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as you observe.
No husbands and wives," with so interesting a consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave them together at once.
But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must wait a little longer.
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait.
It was to be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station over the mantelpiece.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist.
But there was no doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch.
She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to it, and request him to place himself elsewhere.
It then occurred to her to employ him in reading.
It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the irksomeness of Miss Smith's.
Mr. Elton was only too happy.
Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace.
She could not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable.
The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough pleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.
We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the party.
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and happy.
Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism.
It is the fault of her face that she has them not.
It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature.
I never saw such a likeness in my life.
We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly added,
certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall.
Consider, she is sitting down-which naturally presents a different-which in short gives exactly the idea-and the proportions must be preserved, you know.
Proportions, fore-shortening- Oh no!
it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss Smith's.
Just as your drawings always are, my dear.
I do not know any body who draws so well as you do.
The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders-and it makes one think she must catch cold.
Any other situation would have been much less in character.
The naivete of Miss Smith's manners-and altogether-Oh, it is most admirable!
I cannot keep my eyes from it.
I never saw such a likeness.
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few difficulties.
But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than it was removed.
His gallantry was always on the alert.
he could ride to London at any time.
It was impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand.
Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of not being incommoded enough.
said he with a tender sigh, as he received it.
He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet exactly; it will be an 'Exactly so,' as he says himself; but he does sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could endure as a principal.
I come in for a pretty good share as a second.
But it is his gratitude on Harriet's account.
The very day of Mr. Elton's going to London produced a fresh occasion for Emma's services towards her friend.
Half a minute brought it all out.
She was so surprized she did not know what to do.
Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so.
And he wrote as if he really loved her very much-but she did not know-and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do-" Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.
He will connect himself well if he can.
Emma was not sorry to be pressed.
She read, and was surprized.
The style of the letter was much above her expectation.
There were not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer.
It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling.
She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a " Well, well," and was at last forced to add, " Is it a good letter?
I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman.
No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent for-thinks strongly and clearly-and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words.
Yes, I understand the sort of mind.
Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse.
A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected.
Do you mean with regard to this letter?
You must answer it of course-and speedily.
Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me.
the letter had much better be all your own.
You will express yourself very properly, I am sure.
There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing.
Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded.
You need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment.
My dear Harriet, what do you mean?
Are you in any doubt as to that?
I thought-but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake.
I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer.
I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of it.
With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:
What would you advise me to do?
Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do.
I will have nothing to do with it.
This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.
For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,
If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No'directly.
It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart.
I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to say thus much to you.
But do not imagine that I want to influence you.
You must be the best judge of your own happiness.
If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate?
You blush, Harriet- Does any body else occur to you at this moment under such a definition?
Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion.
At this moment whom are you thinking of?
The symptoms were favourable- Instead of answering, Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard.
Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes.
At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said --
While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving.
Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this.
It would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin.
While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me.
I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm.
Now I am secure of you for ever.
Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her forcibly.
she cried, looking aghast.
That would have been too dreadful- What an escape- Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any thing in the world.
You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.
I must have given you up.
It would have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!
I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it.
He must have a pretty good opinion of himself.
However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much attached to me-and his writing such a letter-but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration.
A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter.
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a " very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that her husband could write a good letter.
Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always happy with pleasant companions.
I am quite determined to refuse him.
This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent.
The business was finished, and Harriet safe.
She was rather low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton.
You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill.
Some time afterwards it was, " I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened.
I am sure Miss Nash would-for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-draper.
I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an opportunity as this of being married.
Even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes.
As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark.
The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet.
Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained themselves.
Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like her so much.
The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin.
I hope he will not mind it so very much.
No, my dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow.
It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his delight.
It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession.
How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are!
Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.
Harriet slept at Hartfield that night.
For some weeks past she had been spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just at present.
She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to Mrs. Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that she should return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.
Mr. Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other.
As the sun is out, I believe I had better take my three turns while I can.
I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley.
We invalids think we are privileged people.
Emma will be happy to entertain you.
And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my three turns-my winter walk.
I will fetch your greatcoat and open the garden door for you.
Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more chat.
He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.
Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable woman.
You have cured her of her school-girl's giggle; she really does you credit.
I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they may.
She has been gone longer already than she intended.
Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said nothing.
He presently added, with a smile,
I can think of but one thing-Who is in love with her?
Who makes you their confidant?
Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropt a hint.
Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton looked up to him.
Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his business.
He is desperately in love and means to marry her.
He came to the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it.
He knows I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe, considers me as one of his best friends.
I was very much pleased with all that he said.
I never hear better sense from any one than Robert Martin.
He always speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging.
He told me every thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in the event of his marriage.
He is an excellent young man, both as son and brother.
I had no hesitation in advising him to marry.
He proved to me that he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he could not do better.
I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy.
If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had.
This happened the night before last.
Was not she the whole day with you?
He did speak yesterday-that is, he wrote, and was refused.
This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr. Knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation, and said,
What is the foolish girl about?
to be sure," cried Emma, " it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage.
A man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.
a man does not imagine any such thing.
But what is the meaning of this?
Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin?
madness, if it is so; but I hope you are mistaken.
Emma, this is your doing.
You persuaded her to refuse him.
Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather surprized indeed that he should have ventured to address her.
By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples.
It is a pity that they were ever got over.
exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, " No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in situation.
Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you.
What are Harriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any connexion higher than Robert Martin?
She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable relations.
She is known only as parlour-boarder at a common school.
She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any information.
She has been taught nothing useful, and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself.
At her age she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely ever to have any that can avail her.
She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and that is all.
My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him.
I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse.
But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well.
The advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck.
Even _your_ satisfaction I made sure of.
It crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friend's leaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled so well.
I remember saying to myself, 'Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match.'
think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate friend!
Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own!
I wonder you should think it possible for me to have such feelings.
I assure you mine are very different.
I must think your statement by no means fair.
You are not just to Harriet's claims.
They would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in society- The sphere in which she moves is much above his- It would be a degradation.
After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard's hands to shift as she can- to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line, to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance.
Her friends evidently thought this good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough.
She desired nothing better herself.
Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it.
She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer.
She had no sense of superiority then.
If she has it now, you have given it.
You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma.
Robert Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to him.
He has too much real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion.
And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know.
Depend upon it he had encouragement.
It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject again.
Harriet's claims to marry well are not so contemptible as you represent them.
She is not a clever girl, but she has better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of so slightingly.
Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to be pleased with other people.
I am very much mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims a woman could possess.
Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do.
I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in-what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment.
Harriet may pick and chuse.
Were you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very woman for you.
And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she receives?
No-pray let her have time to look about her.
You will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her.
Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief.
Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high.
Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl.
Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives.
Men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity-and most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed.
We shall only be making each other more angry.
But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible; she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second application.
She must abide by the evil of having refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do.
His appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now.
I can imagine, that before she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate him.
He was the brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her; and altogether, having seen nobody better (that must have been his great assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable.
But the case is altered now.
She knows now what gentlemen are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet.
Knightley-" Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could understand.
Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone.
Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt on Emma's side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer.
The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.
Emma laughed and disclaimed.
Elton is a very good sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent match.
He knows the value of a good income as well as any body.
Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally.
He is as well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet's.
He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away.
I have heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece.
I have done with match-making indeed.
I could never hope to equal my own doings at Randalls.
I shall leave off while I am well.
He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair, was provoking him exceedingly.
Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more indistinctness in the causes of her's, than in his.
She did not always feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that her opinions were right and her adversary's wrong, as Mr. Knightley.
He walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her.
She was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives.
Harriet's staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy.
The possibility of the young man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's that morning, and meeting with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas.
Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton.
Miss Nash had been telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great delight.
Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very sure there must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits.
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with herself.
He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks shewed that she was not forgiven.
She was sorry, but could not repent.
On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.
Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow.
In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon.
Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many more.
Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order, in form as well as quantity.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in.
but he hoped he should in time.
And it always ended in " Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something, he thought, might come from that quarter.
It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition.
Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistance she asked.
They owed to him their two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,
My first doth affliction denote, Which my second is destin'd to feel And my whole is the best antidote That affliction to soften and heal-
made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already.
said she; " that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier to you.
he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his life.
He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse "he stopt a moment --" or Miss Smith could inspire him.
The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration.
He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could understand.
There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than her friend's.
He was gone the next moment:after another moment's pause,
But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the earth!
Another view of man, my second brings, Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
united, what reverse we have!
Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown; Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply, May its approval beam in that soft eye!
I have read worse charades.
I give you credit for it.
This is feeling your way.
This is saying very plainly --'Pray, Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my addresses to you.
Approve my charade and my intentions in the same glance.'
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
Soft is the very word for her eye-of all epithets, the justest that could be given.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.
Humph-Harriet's ready wit!
A man must be very much in love, indeed, to describe her so.
Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the benefit of this; I think this would convince you.
For once in your life you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken.
An excellent charade indeed!
and very much to the purpose.
Things must come to a crisis soon now.
She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations, which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the eagerness of Harriet's wondering questions.
I have not an idea-I cannot guess it in the least.
Do try to find it out, Miss Woodhouse.
I never saw any thing so hard.
I wonder who the friend was-and who could be the young lady.
Do you think it is a good one?
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
shark is only one syllable.
It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it.
Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?
My dear Harriet, what are you thinking of?
Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark?
Give me the paper and listen.
For Miss ----------, read Miss Smith.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the earth!
Another view of man, my second brings; Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
That is _ship_- plain as it can be- Now for the cream.
united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!
Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown.
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
A very proper compliment- and then follows the application, which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending.
Read it in comfort to yourself.
There can be no doubt of its being written for you and to you.
Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion.
She read the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness.
But she was not wanted to speak.
It was enough for her to feel.
You are his object-and you will soon receive the completest proof of it.
I thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you.
Yes, Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen what has happened.
I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural.
Its probability and its eligibility have really so equalled each other!
I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart.
This is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating.
This is a connexion which offers nothing but good.
It will give you every thing that you want-consideration, independence, a proper home-it will fix you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever.
This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in either of us.
and " Dear Miss Woodhouse," was all that Harriet, with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she ought.
Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgment.
It is so much beyond any thing I deserve.
Mr. Elton, who might marry any body!
There cannot be two opinions about _him_.
Only think of those sweet verses --'To Miss --------.'
Dear me, how clever- Could it really be meant for me?
Receive it on my judgment.
It is a sort of prologue to the play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by matter-of-fact prose.
I am sure, a month ago, I had no more idea myself- The strangest things do take place!
You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one another by every circumstance of your respective homes.
Your marrying will be equal to the match at Randalls.
There does seem to be a something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.
The course of true love never did run smooth --
A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that passage.
And he, the very handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to, quite like Mr. Knightley!
His company so sought after, that every body says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it; that he has more invitations than there are days in the week.
And so excellent in the Church!
Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury.
When I look back to the first time I saw him!
And how beautiful we thought he looked!
He was arm-in-arm with Mr.
How nicely you talk; I love to hear you.
You understand every thing.
You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other.
This charade- If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any thing like it.
Such things in general cannot be too short.
Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear.
The most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind.
Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's prose.
continued Harriet --" these two last- But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?
He will be here this evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed- Your soft eyes shall chuse their own time for beaming.
Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful charade into my book!
I am sure I have not got one half so good.
but those two lines are "--
Granted- for private enjoyment; and for private enjoyment keep them.
They are not at all the less written you know, because you divide them.
The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change.
But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection.
Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his passion.
A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or neither.
Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be no possible reflection on you.
Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a declaration of love.
It seemed too precious an offering for any degree of publicity.
But here is my father coming: you will not object to my reading the charade to him.
It will be giving him so much pleasure!
He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing that pays woman a compliment.
He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us all- You must let me read it to him.
Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of admiration.
If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me than towards you.
Do not let us be too solemn on the business.
He has encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade.
no-I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it.
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of " Well, my dears, how does your book go on?Have you got any thing fresh?
A piece of paper was found on the table this morning --(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied it in.
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every part as she proceeded-and he was very much pleased, and, as she had foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.
It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it- Nobody could have written so prettily, but you, Emma.
Emma only nodded, and smiled- After a little thinking, and a very tender sigh, he added,
it is no difficulty to see who you take after!
Your dear mother was so clever at all those things!
But I can remember nothing- not even that particular riddle which you have heard me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are several.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid, Kindled a flame I yet deplore, The hood-wink'd boy I called to aid, Though of his near approach afraid, So fatal to my suit before.
And that is all that I can recollect of it-but it is very clever all the way through.
But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.
We copied it from the Elegant Extracts.
It was Garrick's, you know.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being christened Catherine after her grandmama.
I hope we shall have her here next week.
Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her-and what room there will be for the children?
yes-she will have her own room, of course; the room she always has- and there is the nursery for the children- just as usual, you know.
Why should there be any change?
John Knightley's being a lawyer is very inconvenient- Poor Isabella- she is sadly taken away from us all- and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss Taylor here!
I am sure I was very much surprized when I first heard she was going to be married.
There will not be time for any thing.
Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken out for the Abbey.
Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this Christmas-though you know it is longer since they were with him, than with us.
Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on his brother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own.
He sat musing a little while, and then said,
I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to stay longer with us.
She and the children might stay very well.
papa-that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I do not think you ever will.
Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her husband.
This was too true for contradiction.
Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.
I am sure she will be pleased with the children.
We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa?
I wonder which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John?
Poor little dears, how glad they will be to come.
They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.
I am sure I do not know who is not.
Henry is the eldest, he was named after me, not after his father.
John, the second, is named after his father.
Some people are surprized, I believe, that the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought very pretty of her.
And he is a very clever boy, indeed.
They are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways.
They will come and stand by my chair, and say, 'Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?'
and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives were only made for grandpapas.
I think their father is too rough with them very often.
He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an affectionate father-certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate father.
The children are all fond of him.
It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other.
One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again.
Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push-of having thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up.
His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield.
If he were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him-had made such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come.
Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber.
He re-urged-she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it --
here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight of it.
We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection.
Your friend will not take it amiss I hope.
Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines.
Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say.
He looked rather doubtingly-rather confused; said something about " honour,"glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively.
With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,
He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry.
After this speech he was gone as soon as possible.
Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh.
She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share.
Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury.
Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton.
A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be.
It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes- Emma's remark was --
There go you and your riddle-book one of these days.
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been within side the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.
She pondered, but could think of nothing.
After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again --
Emma laughed, and replied,
And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all.
I would rather not be tempted.
I cannot really change for the better.
If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it.
Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing!
but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall.
And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine.
so silly-so satisfied-so smiling-so prosing-so undistinguishing and unfastidious-and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow.
But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried.
A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid!
the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else.
And the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper.
Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross.
This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor.
Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm.
how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?
Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important variation.
If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work.
There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need.
There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder.
My nephews and nieces- I shall often have a niece with me.
That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times-but are you acquainted?
yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury.
By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece.
at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax.
One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax.
Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month.
I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death.
They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded.
Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse.
In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,
How trifling they make every thing else appear- I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?
one can think of nothing else.
dear, no," said her companion.
The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther,
Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good thoughts.
Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important.
If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves.
Harriet could just answer, " Oh!
dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them.
The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting.
He had been going to call on them.
His visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done.
Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them.
I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration.
It must, if I were not here.
I wish I were anywhere else.
Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road.
But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her.
This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute.
She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them.
Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them.
If I could but have kept longer away!
They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once more.
She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.
I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped.
Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing just to keep my boot on.
Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage.
She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it.
It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room.
For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself.
It could be protracted no longer.
She was then obliged to be finished, and make her appearance.
The lovers were standing together at one of the windows.
It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully.
But it would not do; he had not come to the point.
He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious.
Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event.
Mr. Elton must now be left to himself.
It was no longer in Emma's power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures.
They might advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow or other whether they would or no.
She hardly wished to have more leisure for them.
There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest.
She could never see a fault in any of them.
They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance.
Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour.
He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased.
The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his.
He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.
He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law.
Nothing wrong in him escaped her.
She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself.
There he had not always the patience that could have been wished.
Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed.
The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality.
They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.
And dear Emma, too- What a dreadful loss to you both- I have been so grieved for you- I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her- It is a sad change indeed- But I hope she is pretty well, sir.
Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls.
I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life-never looking so well.
Papa is only speaking his own regret.
asked Isabella in the plaintive tone which just suited her father.
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated-" Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.
papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married.
Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here-and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here.
They are very, very kind in their visits.
Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself.
Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all.
Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated-which is the exact truth.
Her wish of shewing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy.
I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied.
You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband.
I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force.
As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.
I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed.
Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper.
I thought it very well done of him indeed.
Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell.
He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps --
You forget how time passes.
Well, time does fly indeed- and my memory is very bad.
However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure.
I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th-and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it was signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'
I remember that perfectly.
cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley.
But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father!
There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and natural home!
I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him.
I really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else.
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass.
Mr. Knightley was to dine with them-rather against the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in Isabella's first day.
Emma's sense of right however had decided it; and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation.
She hoped they might now become friends again.
She thought it was time to make up.
Making-up indeed would not do.
It did assist; for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity.
Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby,
As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.
I was sixteen years old when you were born.
Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends, and say no more about it.
Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.
Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt.
Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.
Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done.
As far as good intentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong.
I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley made his appearance, and " How d'ye do, George?
succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other.
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and who was always the greater talker.
While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.
And how tired you must be after your journey!
You must go to bed early, my dear-and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go- You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together.
My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel.
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself- and two basins only were ordered.
After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,
I never had much opinion of the sea air.
He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat- both sea air and bathing.
my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body.
I am sure it almost killed me once.
It makes me envious and miserable- I who have never seen it!
South End is prohibited, if you please.
My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you.
good Mr. Perry-how is he, sir?
Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself-he tells me he has not time to take care of himself-which is very sad-but he is always wanted all round the country.
I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere.
But then there is not so clever a man any where.
I have a great regard for Mr. Perry.
I hope he will be calling soon.
He will be so pleased to see my little ones.
And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat.
my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it.
Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August.
the good Bateses-I am quite ashamed of myself-but you mention them in most of your letters.
I hope they are quite well.
Good old Mrs. Bates-I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children- They are always so pleased to see my children- And that excellent Miss Bates- such thorough worthy people- How are they, sir?
But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago.
But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn.
Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy-except when it has been quite an influenza.
Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November.
Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season.
my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season.
Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be.
It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there!
so far off- and the air so bad!
Our part of London is very superior to most others- You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir.
The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest.
I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town- there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy- Mr.
Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air.
my dear, it is not like Hartfield.
You make the best of it-but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same.
Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present.
I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case.
I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill," turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well.
cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name.
I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home.
Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse.
Will not the old prejudice be too strong?
said Mrs. John Knightley- " It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment accidentally in town!
What happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them!
I always regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all.
She would be such a delightful companion for Emma.
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,
Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet.
This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation.
Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable.
Here was a dangerous opening.
said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her with tender concern- The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, " Ah!
there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End.
It does not bear talking of.
And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel.
After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with,
South End is an unhealthy place.
Perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon South End.
A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air.
And, by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from the sea-a quarter of a mile off-very comfortable.
You should have consulted Perry.
This is just what Perry said.
It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure.
Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law's breaking out.
Why does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I do?at my taking my family to one part of the coast or another?I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment as well as Mr.
Perry- I want his directions no more than his drugs.
That's a consideration indeed- But John, as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty.
I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path...
The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps.
I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion.
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what she had done every evening with her father and sister.
She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly.
It was a delightful visit- perfect, in being much too short.
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas.
Mr. Weston would take no denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day- even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of the party.
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the only persons invited to meet them- the hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being consulted in every thing.
Emma called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls.
They joined company and proceeded together.
Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed,
I hope not of a putrid infectious sort.
Indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend.
Let me entreat you to run no risks.
Why does not Perry see her?
But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself.
You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction.
It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her.
What a strange thing love is!
he can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.
After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began with --
It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned.
With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature works.
Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over negligent superiority.
There is such perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value.
she replied with a smile of astonishment, " are you imagining me to be Mr. Elton's object?
I think your manners to him encouraging.
I speak as a friend, Emma.
You had better look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.
The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time.
Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour.
He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing.
It is the greatest absurdity-Actually snowing at this moment- The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home-and the folly of people's not staying comfortably at home when they can!
Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse- four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had at home.
She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence.
She allowed him to talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening her lips.
They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly.
Emma thought with pleasure of some change of subject.
Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from what had reached her.
She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been, " Much the same-not better.
His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he answered.
no-I am grieved to find-I was on the point of telling you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means better, rather worse.
Very much grieved and concerned-I had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew had been given her in the morning.
Emma smiled and answered --" My visit was of use to the nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it is a most severe cold indeed.
Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably heard.
But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness.
Such a sad loss to our party to-day!
This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but it should have lasted longer.
Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.
How very comfortable they make it- impossible to feel cold with such precautions.
The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete.
One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted.
Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence.
It is a very cold afternoon-but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter- Ha!
This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings.
At Christmas every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather.
I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week.
Nothing could be pleasanter.
I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day se'nnight.
Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly,
At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings.
Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.
Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston- Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society- it will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.
Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two.
I think you will agree with me, (turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings.
Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment.
Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room- Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour.
Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place- Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was.
To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.
She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.
The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival.
Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her.
The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion.
Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of " Can it really be as my brother imagined?
can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?Absurd and insufferable!
Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her.
She had frequently thought-especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor-that if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition.
He seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her.
She could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think of.
Weston- So it proved- for when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her,
I should like to see two more here- your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son-and then I should say we were quite complete.
I believe you did not hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank.
I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a fortnight.
Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite complete.
He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.
But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January.
and Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as yourself.
She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as I do.
The case, you see, is --(but this is quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room.
There are secrets in all families, you know)The case is, that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off.
If they are not put off, he cannot stir.
But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point.
I have not the smallest doubt of the issue.
If you think he will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe.
I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her way-allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be as she likes).
And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper.
I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston.
I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing.
Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?
replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, " what is the certainty of caprice?
Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before --" You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks.
It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in short, upon her temper.
To you-to my two daughters-I may venture on the truth.
Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him.
To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful.
It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery.
What a blessing, that she never had any children!
Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston.
But at present there was nothing more to be said.
Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room.
To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure.
Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he was always comfortable.
While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying,
The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better.
Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us.
I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills'to keep him to themselves.
They are jealous even of his regard for his father.
In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine.
A young _woman_, if she fall into bad hands, may be teazed, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he likes it.
I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will be.
Emma listened, and then coolly said, " I shall not be satisfied, unless he comes.
Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared.
Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation.
Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in.
Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa.
He joined them immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.
He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend-her fair, lovely, amiable friend.
And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.
But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on Harriet's-more anxious that she should escape the infection, than that there should be no infection in the complaint.
It did appear-there was no concealing it-exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!
and she had difficulty in behaving with temper.
He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, " Would not she give him her support?would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection?
He could not be satisfied without a promise-would not she give him her influence in procuring it?
She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself.
Have not I some right to complain?
I am sure of your kind support and aid.
She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.
Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer.
Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.
Every body must have seen the snow coming on.
I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well.
Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand.
I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight.
Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away.
As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty.
was Mr. Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time.
To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little.
His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own.
I should not mind walking half the way.
I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold.
Walk home- you are prettily shod for walking home, I dare say.
It will be bad enough for the horses.
Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan.
Mrs. Weston could only approve.
He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend.
He was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus --
And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for.
A few minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness when this visit of hardship were over.
He was afraid poor Isabella would not like it.
And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind.
He did not know what they had best do.
They must keep as much together as they could;" and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage.
It would not have been the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but one.
But now, she would rather it had not happened.
She believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston's good wine, and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense.
Without scruple-without apology-without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself _her_ lover.
She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say it all.
Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak.
She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour.
Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she replied,
you forget yourself-you take me for my friend-any message to Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please.
And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness,
and I can account for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner.
Command yourself enough to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it.
But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at all to confuse his intellects.
As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness, replied,
You have made yourself too clear.
Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can express.
After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to Miss Smith-such attentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing-to be addressing me in this manner-this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible!
Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions.
cried Mr. Elton, " what can be the meaning of this?Miss Smith- I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence-never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend.
If she has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry-extremely sorry-But, Miss Smith, indeed- Oh!
who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near!
No, upon my honour, there is no unsteadiness of character.
I have thought only of you.
I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one else.
Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself.
You cannot really, seriously, doubt it.
No-(in an accent meant to be insinuating)I am sure you have seen and understood me.
It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this-which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost.
She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed --
allow me to interpret this interesting silence.
It confesses that you have long understood me.
So far from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to your views, till this moment.
Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss Smith?that you have never thought seriously of her?
I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to-Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss.
I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith- No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I received --
I have seen you only as the admirer of my friend.
In no other light could you have been more to me than a common acquaintance.
I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends where it does.
Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware, probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you are so sensible of.
But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting.
I have no thoughts of matrimony at present.
If there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment.
Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another syllable passed- Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good night.
The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to Hartfield.
He might have doubled his presumption to me-but poor Harriet!
How she could have been so deceived- He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet-never!
She looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion.
She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it.
His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.
The picture- How eager he had been about the picture- and the charade- and an hundred other circumstances- how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet.
To be sure, the charade, with its " ready wit "but then the " soft eyes "in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth.
Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense?
To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility.
There was no denying that those brothers had penetration.
It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others.
Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion.
His professions and his proposals did him no service.
She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes.
He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for.
There had been no real affection either in his language or manners.
Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love.
She need not trouble herself to pity him.
He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or with ten.
Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind.
The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior.
He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family-and that the Eltons were nobody.
If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers.
The first error and the worst lay at her door.
It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together.
It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple.
She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.
She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think him.
that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin.
That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance.
I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more.
But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.
I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her- William Coxe-Oh!
no, I could not endure William Coxe-a pert young lawyer.
She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must be.
To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits.
The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope.
Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it.
These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.
The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she could not go to church.
Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas.
No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's absenting himself.
Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr.
He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body.
But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield.
Emma was most agreeably surprized- Mr.
Elton's absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired.
She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced.
Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded.
It did, however- Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language.
It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening.
Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude.
She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark.
She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentleman's return.
The confession completely renewed her first shame-and the sight of Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again.
Harriet bore the intelligence very well-blaming nobody-and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend.
Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet's side, not her own.
Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of.
The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction- She never could have deserved him-and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible.
It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life.
Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was to promote Harriet's comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making.
She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts.
If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him.
Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three.
Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of society.
They must encounter each other, and make the best of it.
Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself.
Mr. Frank Churchill did not come.
When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse.
For the present, he could not be spared, to his " very great mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period.
It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again.
These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls.
The acquaintance at present had no charm for her.
She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away.
He wishes exceedingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.
It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof.
What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?
It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish too.
If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January.
A man at his age-what is he?three or four-and-twenty-cannot be without the means of doing as much as that.
You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence.
You do not know what it is to have tempers to manage.
He cannot want money-he cannot want leisure.
We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom.
We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other.
A little while ago, he was at Weymouth.
This proves that he can leave the Churchills.
Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be.
We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do.
He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others.
It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his father.
He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it might be done.
A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill-'Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately.
I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion.
I shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'
If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going.
Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to use- Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible.
But you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your own.
Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for him- Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could- How can you imagine such conduct practicable?
Respect would be added to affection.
Respect for right conduct is felt by every body.
If he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend to his.
You are very fond of bending little minds; but where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones.
I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect.
The Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through.
To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought.
He may have as strong a sense of what would be right, as you can have, without being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it.
If it failed to produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.
I wish you would try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his life.
It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of following his duty, instead of consulting expediency.
I can allow for the fears of the child, but not of the man.
As he became rational, he ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority.
He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father.
Had he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now.
I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not.
Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's perfection.
I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many others.
He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to complain.
They seem to satisfy every body else.
They hardly can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother's place, but without a mother's affection to blind her.
It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission.
Had she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he did or no.
Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations?
Do you suppose she does not often say all this to herself?
No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English.
He may be very 'aimable,' have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about him.
I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.
We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable.
We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain.
Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his coming will produce?
There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest-one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak of nobody else.
If I find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.
My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point.
We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here.
My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.
Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma's opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day.
she found something else must be done.
They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.
She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers.
But now she made the sudden resolution of not passing their door without going in-observing, as she proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.
The house belonged to people in business.
The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.
There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton since his going away.
This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties.
She had not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.
Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any body can.
said she; 'well, that is quite unexpected.
Do let me hear what she says.'
Emma's politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest --
replied the happily deceived aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter-" Oh!
I was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table.
My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well.
And, indeed, though my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God!
with the help of spectacles.
My mother's are really very good indeed.
Jane often says, when she is here, 'I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong eyes to see as you do-and so much fine work as you have done too- I only wish my eyes may last me as well.'
All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath; and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax's handwriting.
I am sure there is nobody's praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse's.
My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know.
Ma'am," addressing her, " do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say about Jane's handwriting?
And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it.
She was pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.
By only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice.
But it is very remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.
However, she will not find her grandmama at all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my mother's time of life-and it really is full two years, you know, since she was here.
We never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now.
Every body is so surprized; and every body says the same obliging things.
I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see her.
Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days.
So very good of them to send her the whole way!
But they always do, you know.
Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next.
That is what she writes about.
That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday.
I was afraid there could be little chance of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.
No, we should not have heard, if it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon.
My mother is so delighted- for she is to be three months with us at least.
Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you.
The case is, you see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland.
Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly.
He is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe.
Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of things.
At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma's brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther discovery,
Considering the very particular friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs.
The very thing that we have always been rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance from us, for months together-not able to come if any thing was to happen.
But you see, every thing turns out for the best.
He is a most charming young man.
But ever since we had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr.
I think they judge wisely.
But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed.
Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax.
You are very obliging to say such things-but certainly not.
There is no comparison between them.
Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain-but extremely elegant and amiable.
so long ago as the 7th of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since.
A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her?
She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us.
Nobody could nurse her, as we should do.
So sudden- You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in!
If it was not for the drawback of her illness-but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly.
I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that.
I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in them to distress her.
Jane desired me to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with 'Bless me!
which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at.
However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it.
But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard.
If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry.
The expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know.
He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time.
Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her.
I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house.
I merely called, because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly detained!
Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning.
And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded.
She regained the street-happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.
Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest daughter.
But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny.
This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life.
These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing in his power.
When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her.
It was accepted; and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time.
The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making independence impossible.
Such was Jane Fairfax's history.
She had fallen into good hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent education.
Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it.
The evil day was put off.
The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of Jane's decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements.
That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents.
This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for beginning.
She had long resolved that one-and-twenty should be the period.
With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.
The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did.
As long as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this would be selfishness:what must be at last, had better be soon.
Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished.
Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment.
With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told.
Certain it was that she was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so long promised it-Mr. Frank Churchill-must put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two years'absence.
Emma was sorry- to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like through three long months- to be always doing more than she wished, and less than she ought!
These were her reasons-she had no better.
Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself the highest value for elegance.
Emma could not but feel all this; and then, her face-her features-there was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasing beauty.
Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom.
It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire it:elegance, which, whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury.
There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit.
In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer.
In that case, nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.
Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first.
If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone.
Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her.
These were charming feelings-but not lasting.
Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, " She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!
Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state.
Former provocations reappeared.
They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance.
She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious!
There was no getting at her real opinion.
Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing.
She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.
If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing.
She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match.
It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished.
It did her no service however.
Her caution was thrown away.
Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises.
There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.
The like reserve prevailed on other topics.
She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time.
It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was.
Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill.
She believed every body found his manners pleasing.
Emma could not forgive her.
He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.
You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music.
I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation.
I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma.
I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence.
There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are.
If any thing, you are too attentive.
The muffin last night-if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough.
I think you understand me, therefore.
An arch look expressed --" I understand you well enough;" but she said only, " Miss Fairfax is reserved.
What arises from discretion must be honoured.
no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained.
Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me.
Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick.
However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way.
I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed.
She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.
Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question --
I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart.
Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's, said --
I knew you would wish it.
There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.
I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way.
They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.
You like news-and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will interest you.
What is it?why do you smile so?where did you hear it?at Randalls?
Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest.
Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him.
my dear sir, how are you this morning?
My dear Miss Woodhouse-I come quite over-powered.
Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork!
Mr. Elton is going to be married.
Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a little blush, at the sound.
So I said I would go down and see, and Jane said, 'Shall I go down instead?
for I think you have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.'--'Oh!
my dear,' said I-well, and just then came the note.
A Miss Hawkins-that's all I know.
But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have heard it?
for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me.
He had just read Elton's letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly.
that is quite-I suppose there never was a piece of news more generally interesting.
My dear sir, you really are too bountiful.
My mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says you really quite oppress her.
my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to us.
If ever there were people who, without having great wealth themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us.
We may well say that 'our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.'
Well, Mr. Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well --
Here was a sly glance at Emma.
The information was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins.
By his style, I should imagine it just settled.
said Emma, as soon as she could speak.
He seemed to me very well off as he was.
We were always glad to see him at Hartfield.
said Miss Bates, joyfully; " my mother is so pleased- she says she cannot bear to have the poor old Vicarage without a mistress.
This is great news, indeed.
Jane, you have never seen Mr.
Elton- no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see him.
Jane's curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to occupy her.
When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax, you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in Highbury, both in person and mind.
He is the very best young man-But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was precisely the height of Mr. Perry.
Miss Hawkins- I dare say, an excellent young woman.
His extreme attention to my mother-wanting her to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my mother is a little deaf, you know-it is not much, but she does not hear quite quick.
Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf.
He fancied bathing might be good for it-the warm bath-but she says it did him no lasting benefit.
Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel.
And Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him.
It is such a happiness when good people get together-and they always do.
Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles, such very good people; and the Perrys-I suppose there never was a happier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry.
I say, sir," turning to Mr. Woodhouse, " I think there are few places with such society as Highbury.
I always say, we are quite blessed in our neighbours- My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is pork-a roast loin of pork --
One feels that it cannot be a very long acquaintance.
He has been gone only four weeks.
Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings, Emma said,
You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell's account-we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins.
And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn off.
What is before me, I see.
At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired-Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly.
She knows I would not offend for the world.
She seems quite recovered now.
Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately?
those dear little children.
Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley.
I mean in person-tall, and with that sort of look-and not very talkative.
but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.
One takes up a notion, and runs away with it.
Mr. Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome?
no-far from it-certainly plain.
as for me, my judgment is worth nothing.
Where I have a regard, I always think a person well-looking.
But I gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called him plain.
The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy.
You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave.
This has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed.
I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole's; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home directly-I would not have you out in a shower- We think she is the better for Highbury already.
I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be another thing.
Good morning to you, my dear sir.
Mr. Knightley is coming too.
Well, that is so very- I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm- Mr.
Elton, and Miss Hawkins- Good morning to you.
Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry-and to marry strangers too-and the other half she could give to her own view of the subject.
It was now about the time that she was likely to call.
If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way- and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.
The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the " Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!
which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation.
As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell.
I thought I should have fainted.
I did not know what to do.
I was sitting near the door-Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella.
I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door- Oh!
dear; I was so miserable!
I am sure I must have been as white as my gown.
I could not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there- Oh!
dear, Miss Woodhouse-well, at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another.
I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me --(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)
for presently she came forward-came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I would.
Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable!
dear, I thought it would have been the death of me!
So I said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables-I believe I did-but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it.
Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly.
Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and make me comfortable again.
Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in her power.
She was obliged to stop and think.
She was not thoroughly comfortable herself.
The young man's conduct, and his sister's, seemed the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them.
As Harriet described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour.
But she had believed them to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did this make in the evils of the connexion?
It was folly to be disturbed by it.
Of course, he must be sorry to lose her-they must be all sorry.
Ambition, as well as love, had probably been mortified.
They might all have hoped to rise by Harriet's acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of Harriet's description?So easily pleased-so little discerning- what signified her praise?
She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt on,
Mr. Elton's rights, however, gradually revived.
Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting.
It had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining any influence to alarm.
Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.
Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man.
He had gone away rejected and mortified-disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one.
He had gone away deeply offended-he came back engaged to another-and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost.
He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.
During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air.
She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction.
The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage.
Many vain solicitudes would be prevented-many awkwardnesses smoothed by it.
A _Mrs. _ _Elton_ would be an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark.
It would be almost beginning their life of civility again.
Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little.
She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury-handsome enough-to look plain, probably, by Harriet's side.
As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing.
On that article, truth seemed attainable.
She brought no name, no blood, no alliance.
Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise.
And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages!
That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.
Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all!
She had talked her into love; but, alas!
she was not so easily to be talked out of it.
The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was not to be talked away.
He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure her.
Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always in love.
she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton.
She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other.
Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations.
Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other.
Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin.
The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards.
But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares.
While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit.
How that visit was to be acknowledged-what would be necessary-and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.
Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude.
It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance-
After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet's returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance.
She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approve-something of ingratitude, merely glossed over-it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?
Small heart had Harriet for visiting.
She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who was married, and settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again; and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and unattended by any alarming young man.
She came solitarily down the gravel walk-a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility.
Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account.
She was feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.
She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls.
In that very room she had been measured last September, with her two friends.
There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the window.
The style of the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive.
Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago- Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer.
She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life.
They were so deserving, that a _little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have done otherwise?Impossible- She could not repent.
They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process-so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure it.
Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins.
The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither " master nor mistress was at home;" they had both been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.
And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both-such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind.
Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her.
There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound-for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with,
Frank comes to-morrow-I had a letter this morning-we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty-he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so.
If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather.
We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish.
There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose.
To know that _she_ thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy.
It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits.
The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more.
Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated.
Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife.
Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing.
Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before.
When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.
was a question, however, which did not augur much.
But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four.
The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall.
I am sure they will bring him soon.
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father-Mr. Weston and his son.
She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.
He had reached Randalls the evening before.
She was pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.
I remembered what I used to do myself.
One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs.
The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.
Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened by what followed.
That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled.
His manner had no air of study or exaggeration.
He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment.
Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance.
On his side were the inquiries-" Was she a horsewoman?Pleasant rides?Pleasant walks?Had they a large neighbourhood?Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?There were several very pretty houses in and about it- Balls-had they balls?Was it a musical society?
He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter.
He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else.
He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's.
And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.
Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman.
Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance.
She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable.
She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about.
His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening.
Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance.
She blessed the favouring blindness.
A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move-" He must be going.
He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else.
His son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,
I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax.
I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name-I should rather say Barnes, or Bates.
Do you know any family of that name?
True, true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is.
Call upon her, by all means.
What is right to be done cannot be done too soon.
And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided.
You saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on.
If you do not call early it will be a slight.
The son looked convinced.
He agreed to it, but with so quiet a " Yes," as inclined her almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it.
You will see her to advantage; see her and hear her-no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue.
said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; " then give me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young lady.
She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very worthy people; I have known them all my life.
They will be extremely glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to shew you the way.
They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave.
Emma remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full confidence in their comfort.
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again.
He came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially.
Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant attraction.
Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him.
They walked thither directly.
She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend.
If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for it.
But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied.
It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her-nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her affection.
And there was time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning.
They were all three walking about together for an hour or two-first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury.
Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings.
He was immediately interested.
Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should have ceased.
He saw no fault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested.
No, it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough.
It would hold the very number for comfort.
They ought to have balls there at least every fortnight through the winter.
Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room?She who could do any thing in Highbury!
The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied.
He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills.
He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe.
Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind.
He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap.
It was but an effusion of lively spirits.
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it.
yes "he replied; " I was just going to mention it.
A very successful visit:I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint.
If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me.
As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit.
The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.
But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it?
Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health- A most deplorable want of complexion.
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion.
He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same-but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health.
Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect was-fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was.
He shook his head and laughed-" I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion.
Were you often in the same society?
At this moment they were approaching Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, " Ha!
this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs me.
He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford's.
If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury.
I must buy something at Ford's.
It will be taking out my freedom- I dare say they sell gloves.
yes, gloves and every thing.
I do admire your patriotism.
You will be adored in Highbury.
You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son-but lay out half a guinea at Ford's, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues.
I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life.
It is always the lady's right to decide on the degree of acquaintance.
Miss Fairfax must already have given her account- I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.
you answer as discreetly as she could do herself.
But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her.
I met her frequently at Weymouth.
I had known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.
Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman.
Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life.
I will move a little farther off.
He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, " Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?
I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.
That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof.
said Emma, highly amused-" Mr.
Dixon is very musical, is he?
We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.
I could not excuse a man's having more music than love-more ear than eye-a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.
How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?
Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.
It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it.
But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her-quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling-there was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself.
She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction.
do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from any body else.
They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself.
But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.
I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly.
But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be.
I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set.
And then, her reserve-I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved.
There is safety in reserve, but no attraction.
One cannot love a reserved person.
But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body's reserve to procure one.
Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question.
I have no reason to think ill of her-not the least-except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal.
He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting.
He was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she had expected.
His ideas seemed more moderate-his feelings warmer.
She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr. Elton's house, which, as well as the church, he would go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with.
No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to be pitied for having.
If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house.
There must be ample room in it for every real comfort.
The man must be a blockhead who wanted more.
Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about.
Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one.
But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives.
Emma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut.
A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than having his hair cut.
There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve.
It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday.
Vanity, extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became liable to all these charges.
His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making no other comment than that " all young people would have their little whims.
With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him.
Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself-how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether.
Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have some weight.
He gave her to understand that Frank admired her extremely-thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly.
As Mrs. Weston observed, " all young people would have their little whims.
There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so leniently disposed.
The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, " Hum!
just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for.
She had half a mind to resent; but an instant's observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.
Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune.
Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave.
This was the occurrence:The Coles had been settled some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of people-friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately genteel.
With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company.
They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield.
Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place.
The regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite-neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls.
Nothing should tempt _her_ to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish.
The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them.
This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.
But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her very differently affected.
Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston's accounting for it with " I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not dine out," was not quite sufficient.
Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses.
They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence.
Might not the evening end in a dance?
had been a question of his.
The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.
She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without inclination for the party.
The Coles expressed themselves so properly-there was so much real attention in the manner of it-so much consideration for her father.
As for _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late, and the party too numerous.
He was soon pretty well resigned.
Late hours do not agree with us.
I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it.
I think it would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us-take us in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening.
The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any body to.
However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy.
Then turning to Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach --" Ah!
Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at home with me.
But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation.
The ladies knew better how to allay it.
Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged.
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual.
He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her.
James could take the note.
But first of all, there must be an answer written to Mrs.
You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of course.
But you will do every thing right.
I need not tell you what is to be done.
We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday.
I shall have no fears for you with him.
We have never been there above once since the new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely.
And when you get there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again; and you had better name an early hour.
You will not like staying late.
You will get very tired when tea is over.
no, my love; but you will soon be tired.
There will be a great many people talking at once.
You will not like the noise.
Emma's going away directly after tea might be giving offence.
They are good-natured people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any body's hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other person's in the room.
You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these _ten_ years.
I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain.
I know what worthy people they are.
Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor.
You would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious-Mr. Cole is very bilious.
No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain.
My dear Emma, we must consider this.
I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish.
You will not regard being tired.
You will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends.
I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account.
I am only afraid of your sitting up for me.
I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard.
She loves piquet, you know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time-and the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort.
You must promise me not to sit up.
Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father's dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done.
He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits.
He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:--
Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly- It depends upon the character of those who handle it.
Mr. Knightley, he is _not_ a trifling, silly young man.
If he were, he would have done this differently.
He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been ashamed of it.
There would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities- No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr. Cole's; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.
She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.
He thanked her, observing, " How lucky that we should arrive at the same moment!
for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual- You might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.
There is always a look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them.
You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances.
You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed.
You are not striving to look taller than any body else.
was his reply, but not at all in anger.
Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with Mr. Knightley.
She was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for.
The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family, the lawyer of Highbury.
The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax.
Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting.
She listened, and found it well worth listening to.
That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply.
But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.
She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present.
They might chuse to surprize her.
It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away.
This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure!
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's, turned to Frank Churchill.
I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve.
I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to question.
If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?
I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon.
She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's.
It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say.
I told you that your suspicions would guide mine.
Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.
We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.
One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland.
Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment.
As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse- In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body's native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March?
Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in her's.
I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are.
Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friend's, I can answer for being very decided.
Did you ever hear of that?A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard.
I was there-one of the party.
And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable-indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again-yet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable.
I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries.
The conversation was here interrupted.
I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough.
Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs.
Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first.
She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them.
I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business.
Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them entirely.
At first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.
But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship.
And now I can see it in no other light than as an offering of love.
There was no occasion to press the matter farther.
The conviction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it.
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived.
There she sat-and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding?
To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour.
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.
They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of the early was Frank Churchill.
In he walked, the first and the handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all.
Emma divined what every body present must be thinking.
She was his object, and every body must perceive it.
She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard what each thought of the other.
And she, " Only to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr.
Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in silence.
Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at home than he liked.
His importance at Enscombe was very evident.
He did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing.
One of those points on which his influence failed, he then mentioned.
He had wanted very much to go abroad-had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel-but she would not hear of it.
This had happened the year before.
The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father.
I never knew days fly so fast.
A week to-morrow- And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself.
But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others- I hate the recollection.
I have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be seen.
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole.
When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.
I never saw any thing so outree- Those curls- This must be a fancy of her own.
I see nobody else looking like her- I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish fashion.
Shall I?Yes, I will-I declare I will-and you shall see how she takes it- whether she colours.
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.
My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to you.
I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh.
Do you know how Miss Bates and her niece came here?
yes-but how they were conveyed hither?the manner of their coming?
How else could they come?
And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be particularly liable to take cold.
I could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage.
You may guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would be making her comfortable at once.
she was as grateful as possible, you may be sure.
but with many, many thanks --'there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's carriage had brought, and was to take them home again.'
I was quite surprized- very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized.
Such a very kind attention-and so thoughtful an attention- the sort of thing that so few men would think of.
And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all.
I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them.
I know no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing-to do any thing really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent.
He is not a gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax's ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him- and for an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley.
I know he had horses to-day-for we arrived together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that could betray.
The more I think of it, the more probable it appears.
In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax.
See the consequence of keeping you company- What do you say to it?
Knightley must not marry- You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?Oh!
no, no, Henry must have Donwell.
I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley's marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely.
I am amazed that you should think of such a thing.
I do not want the match-I do not want to injure dear little Henry-but the idea has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?
I could not bear to have Henry supplanted- Mr. Knightley marry- No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now.
And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!
His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account for the horses.
He has a great regard for the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax-and is always glad to shew them attention.
My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making.
You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey- Oh!
no, no- every feeling revolts.
For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing.
Excepting inequality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable.
I am sure he has not the least idea of it.
Do not put it into his head.
Why should he marry?He is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his brother's children.
He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his heart.
He does not care about Jane Fairfax.
In the way of love, I am sure he does not.
He would do any good to her, or her family; but --
How would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to him?To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?'So very kind and obliging- But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!'
And then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother's old petticoat.
You divert me against my conscience.
And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss Bates.
Little things do not irritate him.
She might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and drown her voice.
But the question is not, whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does.
I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax!
The interest he takes in her-his anxiety about her health-his concern that she should have no happier prospect!
I have heard him express himself so warmly on those points- Such an admirer of her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice!
I have heard him say that he could listen to her for ever.
and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to me-this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody-though we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley?
I cannot help suspecting him.
I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in love.
But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do.
Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously.
I have a very strong notion that it comes from him.
I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.
I see no sign of attachment-I believe nothing of the pianoforte-and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.
She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well.
One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprize-a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill.
Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual followed.
He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted.
They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.
With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen.
Frank Churchill sang again.
They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth.
But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions.
Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside.
She could see nothing but evil in it.
It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella.
A real injury to the children-a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all- a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort-and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey.
A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to- No-Mr.
Knightley must never marry.
Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her.
They talked at first only of the performance.
His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her.
As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.
It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose.
And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step.
Surprizes are foolish things.
The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.
I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell.
From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument.
But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment-whether there were no actual preference-remained a little longer doubtful.
Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick.
Another song, however, was soon begged for.
And Frank Churchill was heard to say, " I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling.
The strength of the song falls on the second.
Mr. Knightley grew angry.
And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near --" Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner?
They have no mercy on her.
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing.
Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.
While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley.
He was no dancer in general.
If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something.
There was no immediate appearance.
No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole-he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.
Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment.
Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner.
They were a couple worth looking at.
Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed.
It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's account.
After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done.
Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles.
The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity.
She must have delighted the Coles-worthy people, who deserved to be made happy- And left a name behind her that would not soon die away.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two points on which she was not quite easy.
She doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill.
It was hardly right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there she had no doubt.
She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing.
She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood-and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half.
She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.
if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!
My playing is no more like her's, than a lamp is like sunshine.
dear-I think you play the best of the two.
I think you play quite as well as she does.
I am sure I had much rather hear you.
Every body last night said how well you played.
The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it.
Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution.
but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.
I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any taste.
And I hate Italian singing- There is no understanding a word of it.
Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to teach.
The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family.
How did you think the Coxes looked?
Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton.
I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer.
Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry him.
Harriet had business at Ford's- Emma thought it most prudent to go with her.
Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would be dangerous.
A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.
She looked down the Randalls road.
The scene enlarged; two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into Highbury- to Hartfield of course.
Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.
I was not aware of it myself.
I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am going now.
Mrs. Weston was disappointed.
They would be very much pleased.
I should be quite in the way.
But, perhaps-I may be equally in the way here.
Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me.
My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping.
She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same.
She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home.
But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.
I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston.
She might do very well by herself.
A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood.
Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night.
It need not detain us long.
We will go to Hartfield afterwards.
We will follow them to Hartfield.
I really wish you to call with me.
It will be felt so great an attention!
and I always thought you meant it.
He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door.
At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.
Ford- " Yes-no-yes, to Mrs. Goddard's.
Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield.
No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please.
But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it- And I could take the pattern gown home any day.
But I shall want the ribbon directly-so it had better go to Hartfield-at least the ribbon.
You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?
but indeed I would much rather have it only in one.
Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's-I do not know-No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night.
To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs.
Voices approached the shop-or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.
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.
My mother is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night.
Woodhouse?I am so glad to hear such a good account.
Mrs. Weston told me you were here- Oh!
And, by the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed.
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.
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.
But about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet him in 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,
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.
said she, beginning again when they were all in the street.
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.
So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill!
said he, 'I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind excessively.'
Which you know shewed him to be so very...
Indeed I must say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected, he very far exceeds any thing...
I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly.
He seems every thing the fondest parent could...
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-only we do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three times-but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention 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.
But I was really quite shocked the other day-for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock.
William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this year.
I will send you some more, before they get good for nothing.'
And when he was gone, she almost quarrelled with me-No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a great many left.
Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could.
However, the very same evening William Larkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and said every thing, as you may suppose.
William Larkins is such an old acquaintance!
I am always glad to see him.
But, however, I found afterwards from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of _that_ sort his master had; he had brought them all-and now his master had not one left to bake or boil.
William did not seem to mind it himself, he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many; for William, you know, thinks more of his master's profit than any thing; but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent away.
She could not bear that her master should not be able to have another apple-tart this spring.
He told Patty this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder.
And so Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed!
I would not have Mr. Knightley know any thing about it for the world!
I wanted to keep it from Jane's knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it before I was aware.
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to, pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.
Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase-rather darker and narrower than one could wish.
Miss Smith, pray take care.
Miss Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot.
Miss Smith, the step at the turning.
Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again.
You find me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.
said Mrs. Weston, " have not you finished it yet?
you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.
You see we have been wedging one leg with paper.
This was very kind of you to be persuaded to come.
I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.
He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte again.
At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to.
Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.
I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell's taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would particularly prize.
I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself.
She was not obliged to hear.
Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment.
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt and very little mercy.
Soon afterwards he began again,
I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument's coming to hand.
She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,
It must be all conjecture.
I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm.
What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all- your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word-Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing.
I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present.
He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.
You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time.
I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds-all the worlds one ever has to give-for another half-hour.
She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else.
He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said,
Do you know it?Cramer- And here are a new set of Irish melodies.
That, from such a quarter, one might expect.
This was all sent with the instrument.
Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here.
I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart.
Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete.
True affection only could have prompted it.
He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together- Emma took the opportunity of whispering,
I would have her understand me.
I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning.
I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways.
If she does wrong, she ought to feel it.
She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this moment-_his_ favourite.
Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off.
I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother's room you know.
I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here.
Quite delightful to have you all meet so- Our little room so honoured!
She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment.
So obliged to you for the carriage last night.
We were just in time; my mother just ready for us.
Pray come in; do come in.
You will find some friends here.
So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,
How is Miss Fairfax?I hope she caught no cold last night.
Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in any thing else.
The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning.
But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism.
Can I do any thing for you?
dear, Kingston-are you?Mrs.
Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston.
Can I do any thing for _you_?
Who do you think is here?Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte.
Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.
I could not stay two minutes.
I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.
They will be so very happy to see you.
I will call another day, and hear the pianoforte.
Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant- Did you ever see such dancing?Was not it delightful?Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it.
very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.
And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too.
I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England.
Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it.
Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence-so shocked- Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!
You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left.
We really are so shocked!
Mrs. Hodges may well be angry.
William Larkins mentioned it here.
You should not have done it, indeed you should not.
He never can bear to be thanked.
But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned... Well, (returning to the room,) I have not been able to succeed.
Mr. Knightley cannot stop.
He asked me if he could do any thing...
yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud.
You must have heard every thing to be sure.
said he; so I just mentioned... Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?You seem but just come-so very obliging of you.
It may be possible to do without dancing entirely.
Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again; and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young people in schemes on the subject.
Frank's was the first idea; and his the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance.
His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole's should be finished there-that the same party should be collected, and the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence.
Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure.
You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five couple there will be plenty of room.
But soon it came to be on one side,
Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.
It will not do to _invite_ five couple.
It can be allowable only as the thought of the moment.
Somebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and must be invited with the rest.
Somebody else believed _Mrs_.
Gilbert would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked.
The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other.
It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a better.
Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of health.
It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in.
no," said he; " it would be the extreme of imprudence.
I could not bear it for Emma- Emma is not strong.
She would catch a dreadful cold.
So would poor little Harriet.
Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing.
Pray do not let them talk of it.
That young man (speaking lower) is very thoughtless.
Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing.
He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately.
He does not think of the draught.
I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!
Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge.
She knew the importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away.
Ten couple may stand here very well.
But still he went on measuring, and still he ended with,
It would be dreadful to be standing so close!
Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd-and a crowd in a little room!
A crowd in a little room-Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words.
Exquisite, quite exquisite- Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up.
It would be a disappointment to my father-and altogether-I do not know that-I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well.
Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest.
Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.
Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme.
It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.
I bring a new proposal on the subject:a thought of my father's, which waits only your approbation to be acted upon.
May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?
Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls.
Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, provided you are satisfied.
This is what we all feel.
you were perfectly right!
Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable- Dreadful- I felt how right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_ _thing_ to like to yield.
Is not it a good exchange?You consent-I hope you consent?
I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for myself, shall be most happy-It seems the only improvement that could be.
Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?
She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable.
A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited.
If they must dance, they had better dance at Randalls.
He had never been in the room at the Crown in his life-did not know the people who kept it by sight- Oh!
They would catch worse colds at the Crown than anywhere.
Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could.
Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill.
But I do not understand how the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house.
We shall have no occasion to open the windows at all-not once the whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief.
Nobody could be so imprudent!
I never heard of such a thing.
Dancing with open windows- I am sure, neither your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it.
sir-but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected.
I have often known it done myself.
I never could have supposed it.
But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear.
However, this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over-but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration.
One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry.
If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be done.
interrupted Emma, " there will be plenty of time for talking every thing over.
There is no hurry at all.
If it can be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses.
They will be so near their own stable.
Not that James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can.
If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired-but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted?
I do not know her, even by sight.
Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole.
Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had the measles?
How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!
You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention.
He came four times a day for a week.
He said, from the first, it was a very good sort-which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint.
I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry.
I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot.
I was desired to say so from both.
It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there.
They can do nothing satisfactorily without you.
Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together without delay for the Crown.
There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect.
in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined.
You will see nothing of it by candlelight.
It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight.
We never see any thing of it on our club-nights.
The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, " Men never know when things are dirty or not;" and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself, " Women will have their little nonsenses and needless cares.
One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain.
It regarded a supper-room.
At the time of the ballroom's being built, suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only addition.
This card-room would be wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable supper?
Another room of much better size might be secured for the purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it.
Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded at supper.
Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, & c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion.
A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again.
She then took another line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,
We shall not be many, you know.
And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through the passage, was calling out,
It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs.
To do what would be most generally pleasing must be our object-if one could but tell what that would be.
You want your neighbours'opinions.
If one could ascertain what the chief of them-the Coles, for instance.
She is still nearer- And I do not know whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of the people as any body.
I think we do want a larger council.
Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?
She will not even listen to your questions.
I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates.
I am very fond of hearing Miss Bates talk.
And I need not bring the whole family, you know.
Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it his decided approbation.
She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties.
We are growing a little too nice.
She is a standing lesson of how to be happy.
No, the young lady, to be sure.
I shall think you a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.
I did not immediately recollect.
Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both.
All the rest, in speculation at least, was perfectly smooth.
All the minor arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
Stokes- Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight, which could not possibly be refused.
And a delightful dance it was to be.
Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must.
As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer character,) she was truly welcome.
Her approbation, at once general and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the future.
The party did not break up without Emma's being positively secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, " He has asked her, my dear.
But this was not judged feasible.
The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty-at the risk-in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain.
Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word.
His wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed.
All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking indifference about it.
Either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.
To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply, than,
If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me- Oh!
Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different.
This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry.
It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree.
It made her animated-open hearted-she voluntarily said-
Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.
What a disappointment it would be!
I do look forward to it, I own, with _very_ great pleasure.
It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society of William Larkins.
No- she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise.
There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side-but no love.
there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley.
Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing.
A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return.
The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly.
As to his going, it was inevitable.
He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance.
He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience.
Mrs. Weston added, " that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon.
This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast.
When once it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim.
The loss of the ball-the loss of the young man-and all that the young man might be feeling- It was too wretched- Such a delightful evening as it would have been- Every body so happy!
and she and her partner the happiest-" I said it would be so," was the only consolation.
Her father's feelings were quite distinct.
He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer at home.
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him.
He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it.
His dejection was most evident.
He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say,
that ball- why did we wait for any thing?why not seize the pleasure at once?How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation- You told us it would be so- Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right?
I would much rather have been merry than wise.
Do not forget your engagement.
he continued; " every day more precious and more delightful than the day before- every day making me less fit to bear any other place.
Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!
Do not we rather surpass your expectations?
I am sure you did not much expect to like us.
You would not have been so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.
He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so.
I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him.
Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours.
It was a right thing to do.
I went in for three minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates's being absent.
She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in.
She is a woman that one may, that one _must_ laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight.
It was better to pay my visit, then "--
He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.
He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts.
She hardly knew what to say.
It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish.
Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,
She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner.
It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.
He could not believe her to be encouraging him.
A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,
My regard for Hartfield is most warm "--
He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed- He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance?
Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.
A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial.
Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, " It was time to go;" and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.
I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you.
I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me.
She has been so kind as to promise it.
the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent- she will tell me every thing.
In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again.
A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest " Good-bye," closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill.
Short had been the notice-short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much.
They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival.
Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks-indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners!
It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days.
To complete every other recommendation, he had _almost_ told her that he loved her.
evil to some is always good to others.
I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy.
He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes.
Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness.
He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,
It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious.
Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love.
Her ideas only varied as to the how much.
At first, she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little.
Their affection was always to subside into friendship.
Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were to part.
I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness.
I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do.
I am quite enough in love.
I should be sorry to be more.
Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.
Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto.
No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched.
Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different- Still, however, I must be on my guard.
When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength.
Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these words --" I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend.
Pray make my excuses and adieus to her.
This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself.
Harriet was remembered only from being _her_ friend.
His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.
Her intentions were unchanged.
Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness.
His recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the " beautiful little friend," suggested to her the idea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections.
I know the danger of indulging such speculations.
But stranger things have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure.
It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand.
He would soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his bride.
There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before " Mr. Elton and his bride " was in every body's mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten.
Emma grew sick at the sound.
She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet's mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength.
With Mr. Weston's ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approach-new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.
Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give.
Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same.
At last Emma attacked her on another ground.
You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.
It was all my doing, I know.
I have not forgotten it, I assure you- Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you-and it will be a painful reflection to me for ever.
Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it.
Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation.
These are the motives which I have been pressing on you.
They are very important-and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them.
My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration.
I want you to save yourself from greater pain.
Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due-or rather what would be kind by me.
This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest.
Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!
Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before.
Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will.
It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved-which gives Isabella all her popularity- I have it not-but I know how to prize and respect it- Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives.
Dear Harriet- I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing.
the coldness of a Jane Fairfax- Harriet is worth a hundred such-And for a wife-a sensible man's wife-it is invaluable.
I mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon as possible.
She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot, without _recollecting_.
A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur.
Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent.
She did not really like her.
She would not be in a hurry to find fault, but she suspected that there was no elegance- ease, but not elegance- She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much ease.
Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant.
Emma thought at least it would turn out so.
As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear-but no, she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners.
It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it.
There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.
yes-very-a very pleasing young woman.
no-there is nothing to surprize one at all- A pretty fortune; and she came in his way.
Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this the best offer she was likely to have.
Well, I wish them happy with all my heart.
And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again.
He is just as superior as ever- but being married, you know, it is quite a different thing.
No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and admire him now without any great misery.
To know that he has not thrown himself away, is such a comfort- She does seem a charming young woman, just what he deserves.
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind.
She could then see more and judge better.
Harriet would have been a better match.
If not wise or refined herself, she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set.
The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.
The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, " My brother Mr. Suckling's seat;"a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove.
The grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was modern and well-built.
Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine.
Mr. Elton was appealed to-" Was not it astonishingly like?She could really almost fancy herself at Maple Grove.
I really could not help exclaiming!
I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Maple Grove.
I have spent so many happy months there!
A charming place, undoubtedly.
Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home.
Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind.
I always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony.
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.
And it is not merely the house-the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.
The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the same way-just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind!
My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place.
People who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style.
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment.
She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,
Surry is full of beauties.
yes, I am quite aware of that.
It is the garden of England, you know.
Surry is the garden of England.
Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry.
I never heard any county but Surry called so.
While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say.
They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_ carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well.
They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year.
Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much preferable.
When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring.
We explored to King's-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau.
You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?
We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure.
there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.
Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am.
I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove.
Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol, 'I really cannot get this girl to move from the house.
I absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.'
Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion.
I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little.
I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse-(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father's state of health must be a great drawback.
Why does not he try Bath?Indeed he should.
Let me recommend Bath to you.
I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good.
that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give.
In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it!
And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed.
And as to its recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them.
The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood.
It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place.
A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with.
It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite.
She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; " but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father.
And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.
Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer.
no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea.
A superior performer- very far from it, I assure you.
Consider from how partial a quarter your information came.
I am doatingly fond of music-passionately fond- and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is _mediocre_ to the last degree.
You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully.
I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into.
I absolutely cannot do without music.
It is a necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice.
I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too-knowing what I had been accustomed to-of course he was not wholly without apprehension.
When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_ _world_ I could give up-parties, balls, plays-for I had no fear of retirement.
Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to _me_.
I could do very well without it.
To those who had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me quite independent.
And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought.
I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description.
Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments.
I condition for nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.'
I am delighted to find myself in such a circle.
I hope we shall have many sweet little concerts together.
I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.
Will not it be a good plan?
If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall not be long in want of allies.
Something of that nature would be particularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in practice; for married women, you know-there is a sad story against them, in general.
They are but too apt to give up music.
Selina has entirely given up music-never touches the instrument-though she played sweetly.
And the same may be said of Mrs. Jeffereys-Clara Partridge, that was-and of the two Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate.
Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright.
I used to be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has many things to call her attention.
I believe I was half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper.
Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another subject.
Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature-quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I assure you.
And _she_ appears so truly good-there is something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one directly.
She was your governess, I think?
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on.
But she is really quite the gentlewoman.
Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest model for any young woman.
Emma was quite at a loss.
The tone implied some old acquaintance-and how could she possibly guess?
continued Mrs. Elton; " Knightley himself- Was not it lucky?for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.' s, I had a great curiosity.
Knightley is quite the gentleman.
Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man.
Happily, it was now time to be gone.
They were off; and Emma could breathe.
was her immediate exclamation.
Knightley- I could not have believed it.
Knightley- never seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley- and discover that he is a gentleman!
A little upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.
Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman!
I doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady.
I could not have believed it!
And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club!
One would fancy we were bosom friends!
Weston- Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman!
I never met with her equal.
Harriet is disgraced by any comparison.
what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here?
How angry and how diverted he would be!
there I am-thinking of him directly.
Always the first person to be thought of!
Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!
All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons'departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.
She speaks a little too quick.
A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear.
But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor.
However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife.
Though I think he had better not have married.
I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer.
But I ought to have gone before.
Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss.
it shews what a sad invalid I am!
But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane.
It was being very deficient.
It ought to be no recommendation to _you_.
It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them.
More is avowedly due to _her_.
A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may.
And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies.
This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry.
Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand _her_.
Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her.
Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton.
Her observation had been pretty correct.
Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again- self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred.
There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his wife.
He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud.
In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at first.
Her manners, too-and Mr. Elton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet.
They were sneering and negligent.
She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike- When they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first.
So mild and ladylike-and with such talents- I assure you I think she has very extraordinary talents.
I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely well.
I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point.
she is absolutely charming!
You will laugh at my warmth-but, upon my word, I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax- And her situation is so calculated to affect one- Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour to do something for her.
We must bring her forward.
Such talent as hers must not be suffered to remain unknown- I dare say you have heard those charming lines of the poet,
We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax.
but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such obscurity, so thrown away- Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed with the Campbells are so palpably at an end!
And I think she feels it.
She is very timid and silent.
One can see that she feels the want of encouragement.
I like her the better for it.
I must confess it is a recommendation to me.
I am a great advocate for timidity-and I am sure one does not often meet with it- But in those who are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing.
I assure you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more than I can express.
You and I need not be afraid.
If _we_ set the example, many will follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations.
I have no idea of that sort of thing.
It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been used to.
My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense.
My acquaintance is so very extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her shortly- I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my brother and sister when they come to us.
thought Emma-" You have not deserved this.
You may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have merited- The kindness and protection of Mrs.
Elton-'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.'
Let me not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me- But upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!
Emma had not to listen to such paradings again-to any so exclusively addressed to herself-so disgustingly decorated with a " dear Miss Woodhouse.
She looked on with some amusement- Miss Bates's gratitude for Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth.
She was quite one of her worthies-the most amiable, affable, delightful woman-just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered.
Emma's only surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do.
She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons!
This was astonishing- She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.
said she-" To chuse to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort!
And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real, generous affection.
Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there.
According to Miss Bates-it all came from her-Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.
Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived-no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it!
There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere- She is _not_ to be with the _Dixons_.
The decree is issued by somebody.
But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?Here is quite a separate puzzle.
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane.
Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome.
We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to.
Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her.
But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth.
With a faint blush, she presently replied,
Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting.
Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change.
Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes silence, he said,
We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other-a something more early implanted.
We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before.
We feel things differently.
And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to.
Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before-and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness.
Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.
The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or other.
Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,
are you there?But you are miserably behindhand.
Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago.
He stopped- Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not herself know what to think.
In a moment he went on --
Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her-and I am very sure I shall never ask her.
Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased enough to exclaim,
He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful-and in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,
You have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you.
What I said just now, meant nothing.
One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning.
no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body.
You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married.
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again.
The result of his reverie was, " No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprize- I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you.
And soon afterwards, " Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman-but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect.
She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault.
He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more.
Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours.
I wonder how she speaks of the Coles-what she calls them!
How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar vulgarity?
She calls you, Knightley-what can she do for Mr. Cole?
And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her.
Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me.
I can much more readily enter into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton.
I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.
Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong-and her temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-controul; but it wants openness.
She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to be-And I love an open temper.
No-till Cole alluded to my supposed attachment, it had never entered my head.
I saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always-but with no thought beyond.
Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage.
Dinner-parties and evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day.
Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated.
We really seem quite the fashion.
If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable.
From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged day- A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have been at a loss.
No invitation came amiss to her.
Her Bath habits made evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners.
She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties.
Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon shew them how every thing ought to be arranged.
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons.
They must not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment.
After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.
The persons to be invited, required little thought.
She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling uncomfortable.
If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would rather stay at home.
It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it possible enough for wishing.
Knightley's words dwelt with her.
He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.
I have neglected her too long.
But I will shew her greater attention than I have done.
Every invitation was successful.
They were all disengaged and all happy- The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over.
A circumstance rather unlucky occurred.
She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very immaterial.
She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother.
The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma.
John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day.
He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly not to dinner.
Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma's vexation.
The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable.
Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax.
Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence-wanting only to observe enough for Isabella's information-but Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her.
He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain.
It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,
I hope you turned directly.
I always fetch the letters when I am here.
It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out.
A walk before breakfast does me good.
Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,
The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives.
When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for.
There was a little blush, and then this answer,
no-I never conceived you could become indifferent.
Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very positive curse.
I know Mr. John Knightley too well-I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body.
I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation.
You have every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day.
I consider one as including the other.
Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle-but that is not the change I had in view for you.
As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have.
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence.
A pleasant " thank you " seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh.
Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her-and with all his mildest urbanity, said,
Young ladies should take care of themselves- Young ladies are delicate plants.
They should take care of their health and their complexion.
My dear, did you change your stockings?
They are some of my very old friends.
I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour.
You do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure.
My daughter and I are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.
The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.
By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.
You really are a very sad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself- To the post-office indeed!
Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like?
You and I must positively exert our authority.
Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks- Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year.
The spring I always think requires more than common care.
Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again.
Now do not you feel that you had?
Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable.
You look as if you would not do such a thing again.
she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again," eagerly rejoined Mrs. Elton.
I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning (one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you.
That will obviate all difficulties you know; and from _us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation.
I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before.
The thing is determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master.
You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves.
But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out.
If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled.
If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmama's.
my dear; but so much as Patty has to do- And it is a kindness to employ our men.
Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.
said she- " The regularity and despatch of it!
If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!
So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong-and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost!
And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder.
If you want any farther explanation," continued he, smiling, " they are paid for it.
That is the key to a great deal of capacity.
The public pays and must be served well.
The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made.
But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get.
Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike.
I have not always known their writing apart.
I know what you mean-but Emma's hand is the strongest.
And so does poor Mrs. Weston "with half a sigh and half a smile at her.
Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?Your Yorkshire friend-your correspondent in Yorkshire- that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad- No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress.
I certainly get better and better- Now for it.
Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again --" Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw.
It is like a woman's writing.
This was not submitted to by either lady.
They vindicated him against the base aspersion.
Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?
No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.
I have a note of his- Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?
when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, " writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best.
Dinner was on table- Mrs.
Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying --
I really am ashamed of always leading the way.
Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.
She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any.
She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain.
She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual-a glow both of complexion and spirits.
She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails- it was at her tongue's end-but she abstained.
She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties- with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself.
She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together.
Mrs. Elton left them no choice.
said she, " I get quite anxious about you.
my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing.
said Jane, shaking her head; " dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?
You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations.
I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove.
A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle.
Wax-candles in the schoolroom!
You may imagine how desirable!
Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in.
But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present.
aye, I know your scruples.
You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am.
I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible.
Your inexperience really amuses me!
A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly.
When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed.
There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something-Offices for the sale-not quite of human flesh-but of human intellect.
You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition.
But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do.
A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for.
I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer.
For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I am.
In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,
I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me.
But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner.
I assure you I began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous.
I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown.
How do you like it?Selina's choice-handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed-quite a horror of finery.
I must put on a few ornaments now, because it is expected of me.
A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery.
But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress- show and finery are every thing.
I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin.
Do you think it will look well?
The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among them.
He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over.
He had been too much expected by the best judges, for surprize-but there was great joy.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him before.
John Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, " I could not have believed it even of _him_.
He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.
The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body.
As to her illness, all nothing of course.
But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town.
They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us.
This is precisely what I wanted.
Well, pretty good news, is not it?
Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now.
I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way.
Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion.
Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them.
She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy.
Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently.
It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted.
Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously.
yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance.
I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage.
We have notice of it in a letter to-day.
I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it-though it was not directed to me-it was to Mrs. Weston.
She is his principal correspondent, I assure you.
I hardly ever get a letter.
Mr. Weston-(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that- A most dangerous precedent indeed- I beg you will not let your neighbours follow your example- Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married women must begin to exert ourselves- Oh!
Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it of you!
You must take care of yourself, Mrs.
Enscombe is in Yorkshire?
Sixty-five miles farther than from Maple Grove to London.
But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about.
You will hardly believe me-but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses.
In Frank's last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's!
This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness-but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on the road- So Frank writes word.
Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton.
I Always take the part of my own sex.
I give you notice-You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point.
I always stand up for women-and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's making incredible exertions to avoid it.
Selina says it is quite horror to her-and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety.
She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution.
Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?
Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for "--
Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
Mr. Weston, do not mistake me.
Selina is no fine lady, I assure you.
Do not run away with such an idea.
Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld.
Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.
It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was _not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it- and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on.
She is very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of her.
Besides, she is out of health now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been.
I would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs. Churchill's illness.
Weston?To Bath, or to Clifton?
The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe.
She has now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to want change.
A fine place, but very retired.
Nothing can stand more retired from the road than Maple Grove.
Such an immense plantation all round it!
You seem shut out from every thing-in the most complete retirement- And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion.
Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life.
I always say a woman cannot have too many resources-and I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of society.
He will find an _addition_ to the society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call myself an addition.
But perhaps he may never have heard of there being such a creature in the world.
This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,
Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible.
Not heard of you- I believe Mrs. Weston's letters lately have been full of very little else than Mrs.
He had done his duty and could return to his son.
It has been completely unexpected.
That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn up-but nobody believed me.
He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully desponding.
And how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?'
and so forth-I always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see.
I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.
the pains I have been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views!
The carriage-we had disappointments about the carriage- one morning, I remember, he came to me quite in despair.
She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on.
When he was here before, we made the best of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we intended.
I think it is the state of mind which gives most spirit and delight.
I hope you will be pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy.
He is generally thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy.
Mrs. Weston's partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most gratifying to me.
She thinks nobody equal to him.
I have heard so much in praise of Mr. Frank Churchill- At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one of those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly guided by others.
I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall judge of him- I am no flatterer.
If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to speak of her with the forbearance I could wish.
You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid to her.
Frank's mother would never have been slighted as she was but for her.
Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife's: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance and insolence!
And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood.
She was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill'd them all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart.
well, that must be infinitely provoking!
I have quite a horror of upstarts.
Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give themselves!
Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them directly.
People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established families.
A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows.
They came from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston.
One has not great hopes from Birmingham.
It is infinitely too bad.
Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him-I believe, at least-I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase before his death.
Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr. Woodhouse to cards.
Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother.
He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon began with --
My charge would be much more concise than her's, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them.
You think so, do not you?
Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party- When did it happen before, or any thing like it?
Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it.
A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown.
The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great.
And if they are, I only beg you to send them home.
Let them be sent to Donwell.
I shall certainly be at leisure.
I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys.
These amazing engagements of mine-what have they been?
Dining once with the Coles-and having a ball talked of, which never took place.
I can understand you --(nodding at Mr. John Knightley)your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed.
But you, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine.
Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him.
A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill.
She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him.
If a separation of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before her:caution for him and for herself would be necessary.
She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.
She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.
That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance!
and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive.
She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state.
It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's feelings.
The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards.
He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she must act.
They met with the utmost friendliness.
There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her.
But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree.
It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been.
Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect.
He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation.
It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative difference.
He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him.
Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury.
This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.
He was often hoping, intending to come-but was always prevented.
His aunt could not bear to have him leave her.
Such was his own account at Randall's.
If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder.
That she was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls.
Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago.
It soon appeared that London was not the place for her.
She could not endure its noise.
Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days'end, her nephew's letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan.
They were going to remove immediately to Richmond.
Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place.
A ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change.
Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends-for the house was taken for May and June.
She was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he could even wish.
Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects.
He was considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered.
Two months must bring it to the proof.
Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable.
It was the very circumstance he could have wished for.
Now, it would be really having Frank in their neighbourhood.
What were nine miles to a young man?An hour's ride.
He would be always coming over.
The difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never.
Sixteen miles-nay, eighteen-it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street-was a serious obstacle.
Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent in coming and returning.
There was no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse.
One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this removal- the ball at the Crown.
It had not been forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day.
Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing.
A very few to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness.
Mr. Woodhouse was resigned.
The time of year lightened the evil to him.
May was better for every thing than February.
Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.
No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball.
The day approached, the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before dinner, and every thing was safe.
No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma.
The room at the Crown was to witness it- but it would be better than a common meeting in a crowd.
She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.
They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great surprize.
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity.
She liked his open manners, but a little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher character- General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man what he ought to be- She could fancy such a man.
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy councillors was not yet larger.
They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons.
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease.
He was looking about, he was going to the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages- impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near her.
Mrs. Elton was spoken of.
It cannot be long, I think, before she comes.
He was on the move immediately; but coming back, said,
I have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton.
I have no business to put myself forward.
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed.
said Mr. Weston, looking about.
The mistake had been slight.
The carriage was sent for them now.
Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness.
He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.
In a few minutes the carriage returned- Somebody talked of rain- " I will see that there are umbrellas, sir," said Frank to his father: " Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went.
Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.
You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him- You may believe me.
I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and approve-so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.
You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies-quite a horror of them.
They were never tolerated at Maple Grove.
Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things!
Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better.
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston.
Our coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious- I believe we drive faster than any body- What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend- I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary.
You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_.
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston's to receive them.
As the door opened she was heard,
I do not care for myself.
And Jane declares-Well-(as soon as she was within the door) Well!
This is brilliant indeed- This is admirable- Excellently contrived, upon my word.
Could not have imagined it- So well lighted up- Jane, Jane, look- did you ever see any thing?
Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's lamp.
Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again.
I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance.
Mrs. Stokes,' said I-but I had not time for more.
Weston- " Very well, I thank you, ma'am.
I hope you are quite well.
So afraid you might have a headache- seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have.
Delighted to hear it indeed.
dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage- excellent time.
Did not keep the horses a moment.
Most comfortable carriage- Oh!
and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score.
Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been- But two such offers in one day- Never were such neighbours.
I said to my mother, 'Upon my word, ma'am --.'
Thank you, my mother is remarkably well.
I made her take her shawl-for the evenings are not warm-her large new shawl-Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present- So kind of her to think of my mother!
Bought at Weymouth, you know-Mr. Dixon's choice.
There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time.
Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive.
My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely-and there was a mat to step upon-I shall never forget his extreme politeness- Oh!
Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet never came out again.
My mother often talks of your good-nature.
Does not she, Jane?Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?Ah!
here's Miss Woodhouse- Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?Very well I thank you, quite well.
This is meeting quite in fairy-land- Such a transformation- Must not compliment, I know (eyeing Emma most complacently)that would be rude-but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look-how do you like Jane's hair?You are a judge- She did it all herself.
Quite wonderful how she does her hair- No hairdresser from London I think could- Ah!
Dr. Hughes I declare-and Mrs. Hughes.
Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a moment- How do you do?
How do you do?Very well, I thank you.
This is delightful, is not it?Where's dear Mr.
Much better employed talking to the young ladies.
Richard?I saw you the other day as you rode through the town-Mrs. Otway, I protest- and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline- Such a host of friends- and Mr. George and Mr.
How do you all do?Quite well, I am much obliged to you.
Never better- Don't I hear another carriage?Who can this be?very likely the worthy Coles- Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends!
And such a noble fire- I am quite roasted.
No coffee, I thank you, for me-never take coffee- A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye- no hurry-Oh!
Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her- He was thoughtful.
Whether he were overhearing too, she could not determine.
After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herself-and it was, " How do you like my gown?How do you like my trimming?How has Wright done my hair?
with many other relative questions, all answered with patient politeness.
And I see very few pearls in the room except mine- So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand- We shall see if our styles suit- A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.
Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,
you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for tidings of us.
repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and displeasure- " That is easy-but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I suppose.
Then changing from a frown to a smile --" No, do not tell me-I do not want to know what you mean- Where is my father?When are we to begin dancing?
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour.
He walked off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston.
He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be laid before Emma.
It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction- Emma heard the sad truth with fortitude.
Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her.
It was almost enough to make her think of marrying.
Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for though she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change.
She wished he could love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill better- He seemed often observing her.
She must not flatter herself that he thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she did not feel afraid.
There was nothing like flirtation between her and her partner.
They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers.
That Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.
The ball proceeded pleasantly.
The anxious cares, the incessant attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away.
Every body seemed happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in the very beginning of the existence of this.
Of very important, very recordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings usually are.
He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not-and she was expecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.
Escape, however, was not his plan.
He came to the part of the room where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining it.
He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or speaking to those who were close to her- Emma saw it.
She was not yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little she saw it all.
to which his prompt reply was, " Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.
no-I would get you a better partner than myself.
Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your command-but my dancing days are over.
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and mortification she must be returning to her seat.
the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr.
Elton- She looked round for a moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him and his wife.
She would not look again.
Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her face might be as hot.
In another moment a happier sight caught her- Mr. Knightley leading Harriet to the set- Never had she been more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that instant.
She was all pleasure and gratitude, both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could catch his eye again.
It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever, flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very foolish.
She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though growing very like her- _she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing audibly to her partner,
The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table and taking up her spoon.
Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet.
She says she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done-One door nailed up-Quantities of matting-My dear Jane, indeed you must.
How well you put it on- so gratified!
Excellent dancing indeed- Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody missed me- I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.
said I, 'I shall not forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.'
My dear sir, you are too obliging- Is there nobody you would not rather?I am not helpless.
Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and me on the other- Stop, stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks- Beautiful lace- Now we all follow in her train.
Quite the queen of the evening- Well, here we are at the passage.
Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps.
Well, I was persuaded there were two.
I was convinced there were two, and there is but one.
Now there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread and asparagus-so she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much concerned- Well, this is brilliant!
could not have supposed any thing- Such elegance and profusion- I have seen nothing like it since-Well, where shall we sit?
Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught.
Where _I_ sit is of no consequence.
do you recommend this side?Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill-only it seems too good-but just as you please.
What you direct in this house cannot be wrong.
Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama?
I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning.
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper; but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked.
He was warm in his reprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness; and Mrs. Elton's looks also received the due share of censure.
He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added, " _She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may be- To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma, that you did want him to marry Harriet.
He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he only said,
I leave you to your own reflections.
There is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet.
It was through a series of strange blunders!
An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl-infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as Mrs. Elton.
I found Harriet more conversable than I expected.
Emma was extremely gratified- They were interrupted by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, " With you, if you will ask me.
said he, offering his hand.
You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.
This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure.
It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him.
The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy.
She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning.
He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day.
Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her- The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder- they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained.
Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long.
A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole.
A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury.
But poor Harriet could not follow.
She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless-and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.
In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent.
By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment.
The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own portion.
He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome.
It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place.
Such an adventure as this- a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain.
So Emma thought, at least.
It was a very extraordinary thing!
He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton.
It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences.
It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to the other.
Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.
She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint.
No, she had had enough of interference.
There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme.
It was no more than a wish.
Beyond it she would on no account proceed.
Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed- aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible.
Within half an hour it was known all over Highbury.
It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news.
The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again.
She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves off in a hurry.
A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began:
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak.
There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary.
As I am happily quite an altered creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it.
I do not want to say more than is necessary-I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me.
Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?
said she, with a conscious look.
She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_ _precious_ _treasures_ on the top.
Her curiosity was greatly excited.
Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience.
Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.
And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it-so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat.
cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, " you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic-I knew nothing of that till this moment-but the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me- Oh!
my sins, my sins- And I had plenty all the while in my pocket- One of my senseless tricks- I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life- Well --(sitting down again)go on-what else?
I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so naturally.
said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement.
And secretly she added to herself, " Lord bless me!
when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about!
I never was equal to this.
Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure.
It was the end of an old pencil- the part without any lead.
But one morning-I forget exactly the day-but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_ _evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer.
But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment.
yes-Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too.
I perfectly remember it- Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he?
I have an idea he was standing just here.
I cannot recollect- It is very odd, but I cannot recollect- Mr.
Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now.
I have nothing more to shew you, or to say-except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it.
and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?
It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married.
I knew it was-but had not resolution enough to part with them.
I must get rid of every thing- There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven!
Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable.
She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, " Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so "and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, " I shall never marry.
Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,
After another short hesitation, " I hope it does not proceed from-I hope it is not in compliment to Mr.
cried Harriet indignantly-" Oh!
no "and Emma could just catch the words, " so superior to Mr.
She then took a longer time for consideration.
Plain dealing was always best.
She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed- She was decided, and thus spoke --
Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you.
The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart.
it was such an inexpressible obligation- The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time-when I saw him coming-his noble look-and my wretchedness before.
In one moment such a change!
From perfect misery to perfect happiness!
It is natural, and it is honourable- Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully- But that it will be a fortunate preference is more that I can promise.
I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet.
I do not by any means engage for its being returned.
Consider what you are about.
Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you.
Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations.
I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject.
I am determined against all interference.
Henceforward I know nothing of the matter.
Let no name ever pass our lips.
We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now- He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches of greater disparity.
But take care of yourself.
I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to value.
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude.
Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend.
Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind-and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation.
In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon Hartfield.
To Highbury in general it brought no material change.
Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more.
He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma.
That Emma was his object appeared indisputable.
Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story.
But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax.
He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons '; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place.
When he was again in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,
brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane.
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield.
They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him.
The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation.
As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback.
The gentlemen spoke of his horse.
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, " I did not know that he ever had any such plan.
You wrote me word of it three months ago.
You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon.
Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it.
It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm.
You must remember it now?
how could it be?Then I must have dreamt it-but I was completely persuaded-Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired.
You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.
cried Mr. Weston, " about Perry and a carriage?
Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank?
I am glad he can afford it.
You had it from himself, had you?
I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away-and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.
Perry's setting up his carriage!
and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health-just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature.
What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!
And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is!
Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent.
Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?
She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston's hint.
Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed.
Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home?
I forget where we had been walking to-very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls.
At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware.
I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not.
I am not like Jane; I wish I were.
I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the least thing in the world.
Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming- Extraordinary dream, indeed!
They were entering the hall.
Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss Bates's in a glance at Jane.
From Frank Churchill's face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her shawl.
Mr. Weston had walked in.
The two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass.
Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination of catching her eye-he seemed watching her intently-in vain, however, if it were so-Jane passed between them into the hall, and looked at neither.
There was no time for farther remark or explanation.
Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.
This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as winter than summer.
We had great amusement with those letters one morning.
I want to puzzle you again.
Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much disposed to employ as their two selves.
They were rapidly forming words for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled.
Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax.
She gave a slight glance round the table, and applied herself to it.
Frank was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them-and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent observation.
The word was discovered, and with a faint smile pushed away.
If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of looking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to work.
She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help.
The word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible.
Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension.
How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep!
He feared there must be some decided involvement.
Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn.
These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick.
It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part.
With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions.
He saw a short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure.
He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure; for she said, " Nonsense!
He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, " I will give it to her-shall I?
and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth.
This gallant young man, who seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it.
Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be _Dixon_.
Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged.
Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned towards her aunt.
It is time for us to be going indeed.
The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us.
My dear sir, you are too obliging.
We really must wish you good night.
Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived.
She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined.
She was afterwards looking for her shawl-Frank Churchill was looking also-it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell.
He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must-yes, he certainly must, as a friend-an anxious friend-give Emma some hint, ask her some question.
He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her.
I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other.
Emma was extremely confused.
She could not endure to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them.
she cried in evident embarrassment, " it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves.
He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not.
She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak.
He sat a little while in doubt.
A variety of evils crossed his mind.
Interference-fruitless interference.
Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her affection engaged.
He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.
yes, perfectly- Why do you make a doubt of it?
she cried with a most open eagerness --" Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me.
And how could it possibly come into your head?
you amuse me excessively.
I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander-but it will not do-very sorry to check you in your first essay-but indeed it will not do.
That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I can _answer_ for its being so on his.
I will answer for the gentleman's indifference.
She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley.
She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers.
He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking.
That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.
After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn.
No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present.
Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed.
It was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade.
Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of.
So she thought at first- but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not be put off.
Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come?
They could go there again with them in the autumn.
It was settled that they should go to Box Hill.
That there was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another.
Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither.
Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.
Such schemes as these are nothing without numbers.
One cannot have too large a party.
A large party secures its own amusement.
And she is a good-natured woman after all.
One could not leave her out.
Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.
It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty.
It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation.
Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack.
she cried-" And such weather for exploring- These delays and disappointments are quite odious.
What are we to do?The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.
Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.
Come, and eat my strawberries.
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the " Oh!
I should like it of all things," was not plainer in words than manner.
Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere.
She promised him again and again to come-much oftener than he doubted-and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it.
Name your day, and I will come.
You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?
Only give me a carte-blanche- I am Lady Patroness, you know.
I will bring friends with me.
now you are looking very sly.
But consider-you need not be afraid of delegating power to _me_.
I am no young lady on her preferment.
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised.
I will invite your guests.
she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself-" You are a humourist, and may say what you like.
Well, I shall bring Jane with me-Jane and her aunt- The rest I leave to you.
I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family.
I know you are attached to them.
It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing.
I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm.
Here- probably this basket with pink ribbon.
Nothing can be more simple, you see.
And Jane will have such another.
There is to be no form or parade-a sort of gipsy party.
We are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees- and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of doors-a table spread in the shade, you know.
Every thing as natural and simple as possible.
My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room.
The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors.
When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.
And, by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?Pray be sincere, Knightley.
If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything --
The thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me-and my caro sposo walking by.
I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey.
In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home- and very long walks, you know-in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt.
Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry.
Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it.
You can borrow Mrs. Cole's.
I would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible.
Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.
Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the warmest heart.
As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist- Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in the whole of this scheme.
You have hit upon the very thing to please me.
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade.
He was invited on good faith.
No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for his easy credulity.
He had not been at Donwell for two years.
He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of the day.
He should like to see the old house again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of his neighbours- He could not see any objection at all to his, and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine morning.
He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them-very kind and sensible-much cleverer than dining out- He was not fond of dining out.
Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence.
In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next- the weather appearing exactly right.
She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush.
Such, for half an hour, was the conversation-interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were come-and she was a little uneasy- She had some fears of his horse.
Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of- A situation, a most desirable situation, was in question.
Mrs. Elton had received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures.
It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove.
Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens-all the gardens?She wished to see the whole extent.
The pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.
It was a sweet view-sweet to the eye and the mind.
English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being oppressive.
In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet- It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it- There had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and turned from her with little ceremony.
Now they seemed in pleasant conversation.
There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it not.
It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending- She joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around.
He was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc.
and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, " These are my own concerns.
I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.
It was too old a story- Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet- They took a few turns together along the walk- The shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat- and they were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come.
Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in vain.
His father would not own himself uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing that he would part with his black mare.
He had expressed himself as to coming, with more than common certainty.
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's entertainment.
Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness had perfectly answered.
Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.
It would only be giving trouble and distress.
Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk.
Till they all come in I shall not be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am gone?
I shall be at home in twenty minutes.
Let my father's servant go with you- Let me order the carriage.
It can be round in five minutes.
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, " That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now.
I must order the carriage.
The heat even would be danger- You are fatigued already.
Mine, I confess, are exhausted.
The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.
Emma had not another word to oppose.
She saw it all; and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend.
Her parting look was grateful-and her parting words, " Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes alone!
seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her, even towards some of those who loved her best.
said Emma, as she turned back into the hall again.
And the more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like you.
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the room.
Emma had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think of him-but she was very glad to see him.
Mrs. Weston would be at ease.
The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause.
I could very ill be spared-but such a point had been made of my coming!
You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up.
I met _one_ as I came-Madness in such weather- absolute madness!
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of humour.
Some people were always cross when they were hot.
Such might be his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the dining-room-and she humanely pointed out the door.
He was not hungry; it would only make him hotter.
In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off.
Emma returned all her attention to her father, saying in secret --
I should not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning.
Harriet's sweet easy temper will not mind it.
He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably.
They were looking over views in Swisserland.
You will have my sketches, some time or other, to look at-or my tour to read-or my poem.
I shall do something to expose myself.
You will never go to Swisserland.
Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England.
A warm climate may be prescribed for her.
I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad.
I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad.
I am tired of doing nothing.
I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating eyes may fancy-I am sick of England-and would leave it to-morrow, if I could.
Cannot you invent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?
I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged.
I am thwarted in every thing material.
I do not consider myself at all a fortunate person.
Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well.
Another slice of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with the rest of us.
It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of a change.
You will stay, and go with us?
If I come, I shall be cross.
I can never bear to think of you all there without me.
Chuse your own degree of crossness.
I shall press you no more.
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.
With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained.
That it was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final arrangement for the next day's scheme, they parted.
Frank Churchill's little inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that his last words to Emma were,
She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.
They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party.
Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good time.
Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback.
Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse.
Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.
Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day there was deficiency.
There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over.
They separated too much into parties.
The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill.
And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better.
It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied.
At first it was downright dulness to Emma.
She had never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid.
He said nothing worth hearing-looked without seeing-admired without intelligence-listened without knowing what she said.
While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.
Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her.
They were laying themselves open to that very phrase-and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another.
Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected.
She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart.
She still intended him for her friend.
I had quite determined to go away again.
I was a kinder friend than you deserved.
You begged hard to be commanded to come.
I am perfectly comfortable to-day.
You had, somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own management; but to-day you are got back again-and as I cannot be always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command rather than mine.
I can have no self-command without a motive.
You order me, whether you speak or not.
And you can be always with me.
My perpetual influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before.
I thought I had seen you first in February.
But (lowering her voice)nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.
Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can.
Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other.
I saw you first in February.
And then whispering-" Our companions are excessively stupid.
What shall we do to rouse them?
Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly.
Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr. Knightley's answer was the most distinct.
no, no "cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could-" Upon no account in the world.
It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now.
Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of.
I will not say quite all.
There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing.
Though, perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party-_I_ never was in any circle-exploring parties-young ladies-married women --
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,
Exactly so, indeed-quite unheard of-but some ladies say any thing.
Better pass it off as a joke.
Every body knows what is due to _you_.
I will attack them with more address.
Ladies and gentlemen-I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way.
very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, " then I need not be uneasy.
That will just do for me, you know.
I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?
ma'am, but there may be a difficulty.
Pardon me-but you will be limited as to number-only three at once.
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.
Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue.
I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.
How will a conundrum reckon?
A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour.
Come, sir, pray let me hear it.
You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never guess- I will tell you- M.
and A- Em-ma- Do you understand?
Understanding and gratification came together.
It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it-and so did Frank and Harriet- It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said,
for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; " _I_ really cannot attempt-I am not at all fond of the sort of thing.
I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with.
An abominable puppy- You know who I mean (nodding to her husband).
These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer.
Miss Woodhouse must excuse me.
I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's service.
I do not pretend to be a wit.
I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue.
Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill.
Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself.
We have nothing clever to say-not one of us.
An old married man-quite good for nothing.
I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.
Come, Jane, take my other arm.
Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.
said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:--" How well they suit one another- Very lucky-marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place- They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath!
Peculiarly lucky- for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give-it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge.
It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment.
Short of that, it is all guess and luck-and will generally be ill-luck.
How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!
Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own confederates, spoke now.
She was stopped by a cough.
Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.
A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise-but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards.
I would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever.
He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone,
Will you chuse a wife for me?I am sure I should like any body fixed on by you.
You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at his father).
I undertake the commission.
You shall have a charming wife.
I shall go abroad for a couple of years-and when I return, I shall come to you for my wife.
Emma was in no danger of forgetting.
It was a commission to touch every favourite feeling.
Would not Harriet be the very creature described?
Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.
He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say?
Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.
I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well.
We shall soon overtake her.
There she is-no, that's somebody else.
That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her- Well, I declare --
They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley.
Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant.
Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her.
Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side.
He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,
I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance.
How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates?
How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?Emma, I had not thought it possible.
Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.
I dare say she did not understand me.
She felt your full meaning.
She has talked of it since.
I wish you could have heard how she talked of it-with what candour and generosity.
I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome.
cried Emma, " I know there is not a better creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her.
Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner.
Were she your equal in situation-but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case.
She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must probably sink more.
Her situation should secure your compassion.
It was badly done, indeed!
While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in.
He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless.
They were combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern.
He had turned away, and the horses were in motion.
She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind.
She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed-almost beyond what she could conceal.
Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life.
She was most forcibly struck.
The truth of this representation there was no denying.
She felt it at her heart.
How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates!
How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued!
And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
Time did not compose her.
As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel it more.
She never had been so depressed.
Happily it was not necessary to speak.
There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.
The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma's thoughts all the evening.
How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could not tell.
A whole evening of back-gammon with her father, was felicity to it.
As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart.
She hoped no one could have said to her, " How could you be so unfeeling to your father?I must, I will tell you truths while I can.
Miss Bates should never again-no, never!
If attention, in future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven.
She had been often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought than fact; scornful, ungracious.
But it should be so no more.
In the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.
She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that nothing might prevent her.
It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were paying her visit.
She would not be ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.
Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.
She had never rejoiced at the sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.
She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon.
The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room.
Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, " Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.
Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite understand what was going on.
I dare say my daughter will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse.
I wish Hetty had not gone.
I am very little able-Have you a chair, ma'am?
Do you sit where you like?
I am sure she will be here presently.
Emma seriously hoped she would.
She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her.
But Miss Bates soon came --" Very happy and obliged "but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as before-less ease of look and manner.
A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a return of old feelings.
The touch seemed immediate.
Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are- I suppose you have heard-and are come to give us joy.
One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder.
It is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate-such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out-do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune --(again dispersing her tears)but, poor dear soul!
if you were to see what a headache she has.
When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve.
She is as low as possible.
To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation.
You will excuse her not coming to you-she is not able-she is gone into her own room-I want her to lie down upon the bed.
But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well.
She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her.
You were kept waiting at the door-I was quite ashamed-but somehow there was a little bustle-for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming.
Nobody else would come so early.'
But then Patty came in, and said it was you.
said I, 'it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'
Emma was most sincerely interested.
She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude-sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible.
She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return.
There was no bearing such an " always;" and to break through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of --
Impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:lives only four miles from Maple Grove.
Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.
The most indefatigable, true friend.
She would not take a denial.
I had not the least idea- Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it- I did not know a word of it till it was all settled.
It was settled so, upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley.
Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed rather fagged after the morning's party.
Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing-and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it.
However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it.
Yes, indeed, there is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it.
Except the Sucklings and Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance.
Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman- A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove-and as to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere.
Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness- It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure- And her salary- I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse.
Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane.
madam," cried Emma, " if other children are at all like what I remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly earned.
Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry.
My poor mother does not know how to bear it.
So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and say, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more.
I was so astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it!
It was before tea-stay-no, it could not be before tea, because we were just going to cards-and yet it was before tea, because I remember thinking-Oh!
no, now I recollect, now I have it; something happened before tea, but not that.
Mr. Elton was called out of the room before tea, old John Abdy's son wanted to speak with him.
Poor old John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints-I must go and see him to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all.
That was what happened before tea.
It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs.
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.
There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it caught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged her mind.
What is to become of that?Very true.
Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now- 'You must go,' said she.
You will have no business here- Let it stay, however,' said she; 'give it houseroom till Colonel Campbell comes back.
I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.'
And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter's.
Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father- Mr.
Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual, said,
I am going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella.
Have you any thing to send or say, besides the 'love,' which nobody carries?
But is not this a sudden scheme?
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself.
Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again.
While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going-her father began his inquiries.
Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before.
She is always so attentive to them!
Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr.
Knightley- It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from her's, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured- He looked at her with a glow of regard.
It spoke such perfect amity- He left them immediately afterwards-gone in a moment.
He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.
Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier- it would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr.
It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!
He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow.
Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be.
I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken good care of.
It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me.
You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us.
And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long.
The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else into the background.
An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill!
Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return.
A sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle.
The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.
It was felt as such things must be felt.
Every body had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried.
Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.
Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances.
In one point she was fully justified.
She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill.
The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.
no doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed-and continual pain would try the temper.
It was a sad event-a great shock-with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill do without her?
Mr. Churchill's loss would be dreadful indeed.
Mr. Churchill would never get over it.
Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, " Ah!
poor woman, who would have thought it!
and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady.
How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both.
It was also a very early speculation with Emma.
The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband-her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion-and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed.
She saw in a moment all the possible good.
Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter.
Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew.
All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed.
Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command.
What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing.
Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance.
They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual forbearance.
Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans.
Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years.
At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma's side.
It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her kindness-and with Emma it was grown into a first wish.
She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy.
She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration.
She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield.
A note was written to urge it.
The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message.
Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged-appetite quite gone-and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her.
He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it.
Her spirits seemed overcome.
Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too great.
He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them.
Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful.
The answer was only in this short note:
Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted.
On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful.
Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note.
In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but " dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take-and, moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.
She was sorry, very sorry.
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who " could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her.
He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
Mrs. Weston wants to see you.
She would have ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you know --(nodding towards her father)Humph- Can you come?
This moment, if you please.
It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way.
But what can be the matter?Is she really not ill?
You will know it all in time.
The most unaccountable business!
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma.
I promised my wife to leave it all to her.
She will break it to you better than I can.
Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.
Weston, tell me at once- Something has happened in Brunswick Square.
Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is.
Which of them is it?I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.
Good Heavens- What can be to be _broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?
It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley.
Emma's courage returned, and she walked on.
I should not have used the expression.
In fact, it does not concern you-it concerns only myself- that is, we hope- Humph- In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it.
I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business-but things might be much worse- If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.
Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort.
Her fancy was very active.
Half a dozen natural children, perhaps-and poor Frank cut off- This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her.
It inspired little more than an animating curiosity.
said she, as they proceeded-speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view.
He is half way to Windsor by this time.
yes-did not you know?Well, well, never mind.
For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure,
They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls-" Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room --" I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better.
I shall leave you together.
There is no use in delay.
I shall not be far off, if you want me.
And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room-" I have been as good as my word.
She has not the least idea.
Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,
Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred- do let me know directly what it is.
I have been walking all this way in complete suspense.
Do not let mine continue longer.
It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be.
said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.)
It is impossible to express our surprize.
He came to speak to his father on a subject- to announce an attachment --
Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet.
Emma even jumped with surprize- and, horror-struck, exclaimed,
There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October-formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body.
Not a creature knowing it but themselves-neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his- It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself.
I can hardly believe it- I thought I knew him.
Emma scarcely heard what was said- Her mind was divided between two ideas-her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet- and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation.
What- engaged to her all the winter-before either of them came to Highbury?
It has hurt his father equally.
Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, " I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of.
Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words.
Fortunately, however, it did cease.
I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him.
You may believe me, Mrs. Weston.
This is the simple truth.
Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do.
It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other-and we were persuaded that it was so- Imagine what we have been feeling on your account.
But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame.
What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so _very_ disengaged?
Composure with a witness!
to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent it- That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither comprehend nor respect.
He had not time to enter into much explanation.
He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of the time he could stay-but that there had been misunderstandings he decidedly said.
The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.
Mrs. Weston-it is too calm a censure.
Much, much beyond impropriety- It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him in my opinion.
So unlike what a man should be- None of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of his life.
cried Emma, not attending to her-" Mrs.
Jane actually on the point of going as governess!
What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy?
To suffer her to engage herself-to suffer her even to think of such a measure!
On this article I can fully acquit him.
It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him-or at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction- Till yesterday, I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans.
Emma began to listen better.
Let us wait, therefore, for this letter.
It may bring many extenuations.
It may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be understood.
Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to condemn him.
I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may.
They must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and concealment.
Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?
Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family!
While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a hope, a chance, a possibility- but scarcely are her remains at rest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she would have required.
What a blessing it is, when undue influence does not survive the grave- He gave his consent with very little persuasion.
thought Emma, " he would have done as much for Harriet.
Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.
He positively said that it had been known to no being in the world but their two selves.
But I shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding.
But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe.
At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window, evidently on the watch.
His wife gave him a look which invited him in; and, while he was coming round, added, " Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match.
Let us make the best of it-and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour.
It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we?
And how much may be said in her situation for even that error!
She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance, exclaiming,
This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of guessing.
But you really frightened me.
I thought you had lost half your property, at least.
And here, instead of its being a matter of condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation- I congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your daughter.
A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was immediate.
His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing.
Those were the words; in them lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted the real misery of the business to her.
Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by herself-very ill in many ways- but it was not so much _his_ behaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him.
It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account, that gave the deepest hue to his offence- Poor Harriet!
to be a second time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery.
Mr. Knightley had spoken prophetically, when he once said, " Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith.
She might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments.
Her influence would have been enough.
And now she was very conscious that she ought to have prevented them- She felt that she had been risking her friend's happiness on most insufficient grounds.
Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her-" But, with common sense," she added, " I am afraid I have had little to do.
She was extremely angry with herself.
If she could not have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful- As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her account.
This discovery laid many smaller matters open.
No doubt it had been from jealousy- In Jane's eyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed.
An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison.
She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert.
But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge!
There was little sympathy to be spared for any body else.
Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.
Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would- She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as possible.
An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston's parting words.
Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum.
Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted.
It was her superior duty.
In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself.
The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another.
Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls.
Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance- But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance.
cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room-" is not this the oddest news that ever was?
replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.
Did you ever hear any thing so strange?
Oh- you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself.
He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said you knew it.
said Emma, still perplexed.
he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another this long while.
It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand it.
Her character appeared absolutely changed.
She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery.
Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak.
You may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.
cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished.
Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?
cried Emma, after a moment's pause --" What do you mean?Good Heaven!
what do you mean?Mistake you- Am I to suppose then?--
She could not speak another word- Her voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.
I know we agreed never to name him-but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person.
Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed!
I do not know who would ever look at him in the company of the other.
I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side.
And that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing- I am sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him.
cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely --" Let us understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake.
I never could have an idea of any body else-and so I thought you knew.
When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible.
I could almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill.
I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of.
Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!
It was not the gipsies-it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant.
That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon earth.
cried Emma, " this has been a most unfortunate-most deplorable mistake- What is to be done?
At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person; and now-it _is_ possible --
She paused a few moments.
You must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other.
But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing-that if-strange as it may appear --.
But you are too good for that, I am sure.
Harriet was standing at one of the windows.
Emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,
Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes.
A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart.
A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress.
She touched-she admitted-she acknowledged the whole truth.
Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill?
Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some hope of a return?
It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!
Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes.
She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before.
How improperly had she been acting by Harriet!
How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct!
What blindness, what madness, had led her on!
It struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world.
Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances- Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expectation.
When they had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully- He seemed to want to be acquainted with her.
Emma knew it to have been very much the case.
She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent- Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him-and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet.
The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article marked, gave her severe pain.
On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a little reflection, venture the following question.
But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit.
No indeed- There was not a hint of Mr. Martin.
I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it.
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.
You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be the rule of mine-and so I have.
But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful.
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable her to say on reply,
Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her father's footsteps.
He was coming through the hall.
Harriet was too much agitated to encounter him.
that I had never seen her!
The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her thoughts- She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours.
Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to her- How to understand it all!
To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first endeavour.
To that point went every leisure moment which her father's claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling declared him now to be?
had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison- She saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear.
She saw, that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart-and, in short, that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!
This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection.
This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she reached; and without being long in reaching it- She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her-her affection for Mr.
Knightley- Every other part of her mind was disgusting.
With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every body's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every body's destiny.
She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she had not quite done nothing-for she had done mischief.
She had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.
Knightley and Harriet Smith- Such an elevation on her side!
Such a debasement on his!
And yet it was far, very far, from impossible- Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers?
Was it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek him?Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous-or for chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the human fate?
had she never brought Harriet forward!
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to Mr.
was not that her own doing too?
She had herself been first with him for many years past.
In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them.
Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley.
She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to _her_.
She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality- How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates!
It would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for him.
Nothing should separate her from her father.
She would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.
The power of observation would be soon given-frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course.
A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her friend related.
Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so.
They had gone, in short-and very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady.
She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness.
The quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter-who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene.
They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them.
Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject.
This was one of her expressions.
No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself.
But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct.
I never can be blameless.
I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.'
Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up.
The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'
It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement.
Her affection must have overpowered her judgment.
But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before.
One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, " was that of making her _unreasonable_.
The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been-that had been-hard for him to bear.
She was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself.
Mrs. Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss Fairfax- Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is all to be forgotten.
You are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars.
They shew her to the greatest advantage.
I am sure she is very good-I hope she will be very happy.
It is fit that the fortune should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.
Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston.
She thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest.
was Mrs. Weston's parting question.
I am always well, you know.
Be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.
Mrs. Weston's communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax.
She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause.
Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst.
She must have been a perpetual enemy.
They never could have been all three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more.
The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.
The weather added what it could of gloom.
A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible.
The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before.
It reminded her of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston's wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy.
such delightful proofs of Hartfield's attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over.
The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost- But her present forebodings she feared would experience no similar contradiction.
The prospect before her now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled-that might not be even partially brightened.
If all took place that might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined happiness.
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be occupied by it.
They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also- Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury.
They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe.
All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach?
Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort- No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their's- How was it to be endured?
With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible.
Never had the exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her.
She had been thinking of him the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles distant- There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind.
She must be collected and calm.
In half a minute they were together.
The " How d'ye do's " were quiet and constrained on each side.
She asked after their mutual friends; they were all well- When had he left them?Only that morning.
He must have had a wet ride- Yes- He meant to walk with her, she found.
She thought he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had been received.
She thought he was often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give.
And this belief produced another dread.
Perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for encouragement to begin- She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way to any such subject.
He must do it all himself.
Yet she could not bear this silence.
With him it was most unnatural.
She considered-resolved-and, trying to smile, began --
said he quietly, and looking at her; " of what nature?
the best nature in the world-a wedding.
After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more, he replied,
cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard's in his way.
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more composure,
For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,
Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken and subdued accent, " The feelings of the warmest friendship-Indignation-Abominable scoundrel!
And in a louder, steadier tone, he concluded with, " He will soon be gone.
They will soon be in Yorkshire.
She deserves a better fate.
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,
cried he, looking eagerly at her, " are you, indeed?
but checking himself --" No, no, I understand you-forgive me-I am pleased that you can say even so much- He is no object of regret, indeed!
He listened in perfect silence.
She wished him to speak, but he would not.
She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion.
Many circumstances assisted the temptation.
He was the son of Mr. Weston-he was continually here-I always found him very pleasant-and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last-my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions.
Latterly, however-for some time, indeed-I have had no idea of their meaning any thing- I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.
He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me.
I have never been attached to him.
And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour.
He never wished to attach me.
She had hoped for an answer here-for a few words to say that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought.
At last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,
returned Mr. Knightley, with energy.
In one respect he is the object of my envy.
They seemed to be within half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if possible.
She made her plan; she would speak of something totally different-the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,
Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment.
then, don't speak it, don't speak it," she eagerly cried.
Emma could not bear to give him pain.
He was wishing to confide in her-perhaps to consult her- cost her what it would, she would listen.
I will tell you exactly what I think.
He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her.
Say 'No,' if it is to be said.
She could really say nothing-" You are silent," he cried, with great animation; " absolutely silent!
at present I ask no more.
Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment.
The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.
But you know what I am- You hear nothing but truth from me- I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it- Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them.
The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them.
God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover- But you understand me- Yes, you see, you understand my feelings-and will return them if you can.
At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.
She felt for Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her brain.
She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever; but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal and degrading.
Her way was clear, though not quite smooth- She spoke then, on being so entreated- What did she say?Just what she ought, of course.
A lady always does- She said enough to shew there need not be despair-and to invite him to say more himself.
He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence.
He had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it.
It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country- The Box Hill party had decided him on going away.
He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions- He had gone to learn to be indifferent- But he had gone to a wrong place.
He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.
He had found her agitated and low- Frank Churchill was a villain- He heard her declare that she had never loved him.
Frank Churchill's character was not desperate- She was his own Emma, by hand and word, when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.
She could not be alone without feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the question.
With respect to her father, it was a question soon answered.
She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father- She even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of thought.
She opened the packet; it was too surely so- a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.
My courage rises while I write.
It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble.
My right to place myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another question.
I shall not discuss it here.
For my temptation to _think_ it a right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above, in Highbury.
Every possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence.
My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one point.
And now I come to the principal, the only important part of my conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous explanation.
We seemed to understand each other.
You will find, whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not take her wholly by surprize.
She frequently gave me hints of it.
I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax- I hope this history of my conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of what you saw amiss.
While you considered me as having sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either.
My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to get my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.
You will soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly yourself- No description can describe her.
I want to have your opinion of her looks.
I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit.
Perhaps it is paid already.
Let me hear from you without delay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars.
Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or misery.
When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence and patience, and my uncle's generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger.
If I could but see her again- But I must not propose it yet.
My uncle has been too good for me to encroach- I must still add to this long letter.
You have not heard all that you ought to hear.
I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and refinement- But I had no choice.
And here I can admit, that my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable.
But she was always right.
I was late; I met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it.
She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable.
Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree of discretion.
Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away determined that she should make the first advances- I shall always congratulate myself that you were not of the Box Hill party.
Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of me again.
Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority.
I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing.
It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy.
For the world would not she have seemed to threaten me- Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post- What was to be done?One thing only- I must speak to my uncle.
Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again- I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man!
A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away.
But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's uneasiness can ever occur between us again.
Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before.
I hope she is right- In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself, Your obliged and affectionate Son, F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.
This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings.
She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold.
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it.
She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct.
I will take it home with me at night.
Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him.
He began-stopping, however, almost directly to say, " Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference.
He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, " Humph!
a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way.
One man's style must not be the rule of another's.
By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.
It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it --
Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.
He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge- Bad- He ought not to have formed the engagement-'His father's disposition:'he is unjust, however, to his father.
Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it- Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here.
You pass it over very handsomely-but you were perfectly right.
Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal- No judge of his own manners by you- Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience- Fancying you to have fathomed his secret.
Natural enough- his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others- Mystery; Finesse-how they pervert the understanding!
My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, " the pianoforte!
That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure.
A boyish scheme, indeed- I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could.
After this, he made some progress without any pause.
Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing.
You never wrote a truer line.
He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable.
We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment.
Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable.
Her own behaviour had been so very improper!
She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look.
It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain-no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.
actually resolve to break with him entirely- She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each-she dissolved it- What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour- Well, he must be a most extraordinary --
What a letter the man writes!
I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation- He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands-'Happier than I deserve.'
Come, he knows himself there.
Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?And a fine ending-and there is the letter.
The child of good fortune!
That was your name for him, was it?
I hope it does him some service with you.
And now, let me talk to you of something else.
I have another person's interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill.
Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject.
The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father.
Emma's answer was ready at the first word.
She could never quit him.
Part only of this answer, however, was admitted.
The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to.
Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield- No, he felt that it ought not to be attempted.
Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing thoughts.
Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her.
She was sensible of all the affection it evinced.
She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with.
She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject.
He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself.
there is one difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma.
You must get his consent before you ask mine.
She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good scheme.
It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded.
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield-the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.
His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every drawback.
Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her- Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy!
She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from Hartfield.
The delightful family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from.
She would be a loser in every way.
Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment.
In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment.
In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early.
Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure- not like Mr. Elton.
Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.
It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as herself to avoid a meeting.
Their intercourse was painful enough by letter.
How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!
She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella's invitation; and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting to invention- There was a tooth amiss.
Harriet really wished, and had wished some time, to consult a dentist.
The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard's, or in London, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in Emma's sensations; but she could not think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment, which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place in her mind which Harriet had occupied.
There was a communication before her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make-the confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it at present- She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were safe and well.
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax- She ought to go-and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present situations increasing every other motive of goodwill.
It would be a _secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing Jane might communicate.
There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted- She came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together.
Miss Bates was out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity.
Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rencontre would do them no harm.
She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton's thoughts, and understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in Miss Fairfax's confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to other people.
You and I shall not want opportunities.
And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already.
I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not offended.
You see how delightfully she writes.
You would have doated on her, had you gone- But not a word more.
Let us be discreet-quite on our good behaviour- Hush- You remember those lines-I forget the poem at this moment:
Now I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read --mum!
a word to the wise- I am in a fine flow of spirits, an't I?
But I want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S- _My_ representation, you see, has quite appeased her.
And again, on Emma's merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates's knitting, she added, in a half whisper,
no; cautious as a minister of state.
I managed it extremely well.
It was a palpable display, repeated on every possible occasion.
When they had all talked a little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with,
Upon my word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time- Oh!
if you had seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!
And when Mrs. Bates was saying something to Emma, whispered farther, " We do not say a word of any _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young physician from Windsor- Oh!
no; Perry shall have all the credit.
But yet I think there was something wanting.
Things did not seem-that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some- So it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken.
However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again.
What say you both to our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while the fine weather lasts?It must be the same party, you know, quite the same party, not _one_ exception.
Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say every thing.
Woodhouse?I am so glad- Quite out of my power- Such a happy little circle as you find us here- Yes, indeed- Charming young man- that is-so very friendly; I mean good Mr.
Perry- such attention to Jane!
He promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you.
are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr.
Elton?That will be a favour indeed!
for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton's time is so engaged.
They seem not able to do any thing without him-'Upon my word, Mr. E.,' I often say, 'rather you than I- I do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half so many applicants.'
Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree- I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight- However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all.
And putting up her hand to screen her words from Emma --" A congratulatory visit, you know- Oh!
yes, quite indispensable.
Miss Bates looked about her, so happily-
E. is Knightley's right hand.
Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, " Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?He will have a hot walk.
no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting.
Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who lead- I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way.
Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday.
no, the meeting is certainly to-day," was the abrupt answer, which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side- " I do believe," she continued, " this is the most troublesome parish that ever was.
We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.
you clever creature, that's very true.
What a thinking brain you have!
I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we could be shaken together.
My liveliness and your solidity would produce perfection- Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that _some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already- But hush- not a word, if you please.
It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.
The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.
Mr. Elton made his appearance.
His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity.
You knew I should not stir till my lord and master appeared- Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience-for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?
Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.
His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing.
after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one.
cried his wife-" My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell- You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown.
And then not to find him at home!
I assure you I am not at all pleased.
And no apology left, no message for me.
The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected- Very extraordinary- And nobody knew at all which way he was gone.
Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods- Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley- Can you explain it?
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.
The very last person whom one should expect to be forgotten- My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he must- Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric- and his servants forgot it.
Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward and remiss- I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration.
And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed- She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it.
He did not know what was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of him.
I have nothing to do with William's wants, but it really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose.
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly.
In all probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,
Had you not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might have been strictly correct- I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent.
cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual composure --" there would have been no danger.
The danger would have been of my wearying you.
You could not have gratified me more than by expressing an interest --.
I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself.
But, unfortunately-in short, if your compassion does not stand my friend --
you are too scrupulous, indeed you are," cried Emma warmly, and taking her hand.
I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.
Let us forgive each other at once.
We must do whatever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there.
I hope you have pleasant accounts from Windsor?
as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet.
I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs.
The smile was returned as Jane answered,
And I will own to you, (I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled.
There must be three months, at least, of deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more to wait for.
if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and open- Good-bye, good-bye.
Mrs. Weston's friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl.
She had been decided in wishing for a Miss Weston.
She would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella's sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother best.
It will be the only difference.
cried Emma; " at that rate, what will become of her?
She will be disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older.
I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma.
I, who am owing all my happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on them?
Emma laughed, and replied: " But I had the assistance of all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people.
I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me without it.
Nature gave you understanding:Miss Taylor gave you principles.
My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good.
It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner.
I do not believe I did you any good.
The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me.
I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least.
I am very sure you did me good.
And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen.
In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one.
You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound- And yet it is formal.
I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what.
I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again.
I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K- But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing --" I will promise to call you once by your Christian name.
I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where- in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse.
This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining.
She was aware herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella's letters.
He might observe that it was so.
The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
Emma's comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least.
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back.
It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage.
Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned.
But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.
It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already.
Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him.
she cried with more thorough gaiety, " if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion.
Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice.
He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine.
I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma'with him at once- His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther.
he cried, " I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together.
I am amused by one part of John's letter-did you notice it?where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind.
He seems perfectly unprepared for that.
What has he been judging by?I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another- But it was so, I suppose.
I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day.
I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual.
I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons'reception of it tried.
She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself.
Poor man- it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it.
She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor- But it would not do.
Knightley?Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?Would not he like to have him always on the spot?Yes.
Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every day- but they did see him every day as it was- Why could not they go on as they had done?
And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable- The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma.
But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future.
It was all right, all open, all equal.
No sacrifice on any side worth the name.
It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women in the world.
If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps.
Only let me be told when I may speak out- I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point.
Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards.
It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match.
Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck.
But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed-" Poor Knightley!
But that would be all over now- Poor fellow- No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_.
no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing- Extremely disagreeable!
But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day- Shocking plan, living together.
She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter.
A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be arriving.
It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by.
After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with,
said she, quickly, looking up in his face.
good I am sure- I see it in your countenance.
You are trying not to smile.
but why so?I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too.
He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face.
Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what.
Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin.
Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared-and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, " No, this is impossible!
but her lips were closed.
He left me not half an hour ago.
She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.
Time, you may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject.
It seems an impossibility- You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin.
You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again-yet.
You only mean, that he intends it.
Then having recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added, " Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me.
How, where, when?Let me know it all.
I never was more surprized-but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you- How-how has it been possible?
He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John- He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley's.
They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley's.
The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John-and Miss Smith.
My friend Robert could not resist.
He came down by yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own.
This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when.
He stopped- Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply.
To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.
She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad.
Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,
His situation is an evil-but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more.
His good sense and good principles would delight you- As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands.
His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma- You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile too broadly-she did-cheerfully answering,
I think Harriet is doing extremely well.
In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are.
I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize.
You cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me!
how peculiarly unprepared I was- for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before.
Emma could not help laughing as she answered, " Upon my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do- But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him.
It could not be otherwise.
I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer.
Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?
He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do.
He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends.
Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard?
I assured him that I could not.
Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day.
I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her.
I have often talked to her a good deal.
You must have seen that I did.
cried Emma, shaking her head-" Ah!
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father.
Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected.
She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational.
Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined.
The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security- What had she to wish for?
Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own.
Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future.
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them.
She must laugh at such a close!
Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back!
Such a heart-such a Harriet!
Now there would be pleasure in her returning-Every thing would be a pleasure.
It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.
High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over.
The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over.
She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty.
Weston was alone in the drawing-room:but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window.
He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us- They are coming in, I hope.
In half a minute they were in the room.
Emma was extremely glad to see him-but there was a degree of confusion-a number of embarrassing recollections on each side.
When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation-or of courage and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say,
I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon.
I hope you do not retract what you then said.
I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you-and to give you joy in person.
He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.
said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon- Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.
But is it possible that you had no suspicion?I mean of late.
Early, I know, you had none.
I was once very near-and I wish I had-it would have been better.
But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service- It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing.
When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward- But now, I am at such a distance from her-is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation.
Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried,
by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment --" I hope Mr. Knightley is well?
He paused- She coloured and laughed-" I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour.
Let me return your congratulations- I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction- He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise.
Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were,
such delicacy- and yet without being actually fair- One cannot call her fair.
It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair-a most distinguishing complexion!
So peculiarly the lady in it- Just colour enough for beauty.
no-what an impudent dog I was- How could I dare --
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help saying,
no, no, no-how can you suspect me of such a thing?
I was the most miserable wretch!
I am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us all in- Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same situation.
I think there is a little likeness between us.
You can have no superior, but most true on mine- She is a complete angel.
Is not she an angel in every gesture?
Observe the turn of her throat.
Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father- You will be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my uncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels.
I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head.
Will not it be beautiful in her dark hair?
and to see you in such excellent looks- I would not have missed this meeting for the world.
I should certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come.
The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the infant's appearing not quite well.
She believed she had been foolish, but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr. Perry.
Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been almost as uneasy as herself- In ten minutes, however, the child had been perfectly well again.
This was her history; and particularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not done it.
She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often.
It was a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had seen it.
Frank Churchill caught the name.
said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss Fairfax's eye.
What are they saying about Mr.
Perry?Has he been here this morning?And how does he travel now?Has he set up his carriage?
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the laugh, it was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.
I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown.
Do not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter, which sent me the report, is passing under her eye-that the whole blunder is spread before her-that she can attend to nothing else, though pretending to listen to the others?
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet steady voice,
The happiness of this most happy day, received its completion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.
But what did such particulars explain?The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible- Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma.
The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so- Harriet's parentage became known.
Elton- The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.
She had no doubt of Harriet's happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement.
She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness.
She would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out.
She would be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man- or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.
Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells- The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and they were only waiting for November.
The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by Emma and Mr.
But Mr. Woodhouse-how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent?he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event.
When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost hopeless- A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain- He began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it-a very promising step of the mind on its way to resignation.
Still, however, he was not happy.
Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter's courage failed.
Other poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered- Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr. Woodhouse's fears- He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-in-law's protection, would have been under wretched alarm every night of his life.
The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence.
While either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe- But Mr. John Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in November.
But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
This was the page at which the favourite volume always opened:
of South Park, in the county of Gloucester, by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born June 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, November 5, 1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791.
of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset," and by inserting most accurately the day of the month on which he had lost his wife.
Vanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter Elliot's character; vanity of person and of situation.
He had been remarkably handsome in his youth; and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man.
Few women could think more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could the valet of any new made lord be more delighted with the place he held in society.
He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united these gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and devotion.
His good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his attachment; since to them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to any thing deserved by his own.
Three girls, the two eldest sixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath, an awful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a conceited, silly father.
This friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever might have been anticipated on that head by their acquaintance.
Thirteen years had passed away since Lady Elliot's death, and they were still near neighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other a widow.
Be it known then, that Sir Walter, like a good father, (having met with one or two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications), prided himself on remaining single for his dear daughters'sake.
For one daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up any thing, which he had not been very much tempted to do.
Elizabeth had succeeded, at sixteen, to all that was possible, of her mother's rights and consequence; and being very handsome, and very like himself, her influence had always been great, and they had gone on together most happily.
His two other children were of very inferior value.
To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued god-daughter, favourite, and friend.
Lady Russell loved them all; but it was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again.
He had never indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name in any other page of his favourite work.
All equality of alliance must rest with Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an old country family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore given all the honour and received none: Elizabeth would, one day or other, marry suitably.
It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she was ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been neither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely any charm is lost.
Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every face in the neighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow's foot about Lady Russell's temples had long been a distress to him.
Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment.
Thirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and directing with a self-possession and decision which could never have given the idea of her being younger than she was.
For thirteen years had she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at home, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking immediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms in the country.
Thirteen winters'revolving frosts had seen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty neighbourhood afforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she travelled up to London with her father, for a few weeks'annual enjoyment of the great world.
Then might she again take up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth, but now she liked it not.
Always to be presented with the date of her own birth and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it open on the table near her, had she closed it, with averted eyes, and pushed it away.
She had had a disappointment, moreover, which that book, and especially the history of her own family, must ever present the remembrance of.
The heir presumptive, the very William Walter Elliot, Esq., whose rights had been so generously supported by her father, had disappointed her.
She had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had known him to be, in the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant to marry him, and her father had always meant that she should.
He was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the law; and Elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his favour was confirmed.
He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talked of and expected all the rest of the year; but he never came.
The following spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable, again encouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did not come; and the next tidings were that he was married.
Instead of pushing his fortune in the line marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, he had purchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of inferior birth.
Sir Walter has resented it.
As the head of the house, he felt that he ought to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so publicly by the hand; " For they must have been seen together," he observed, " once at Tattersall's, and twice in the lobby of the House of Commons.
His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little regarded.
Mr Elliot had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as unsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter considered him unworthy of it: all acquaintance between them had ceased.
There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her feelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal.
Yet so miserably had he conducted himself, that though she was at this present time (the summer of 1814) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could not admit him to be worth thinking of again.
This could not be pardoned.
But now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be added to these.
Her father was growing distressed for money.
She knew, that when he now took up the Baronetage, it was to drive the heavy bills of his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr Shepherd, his agent, from his thoughts.
The Kellynch property was good, but not equal to Sir Walter's apprehension of the state required in its possessor.
While Lady Elliot lived, there had been method, moderation, and economy, which had just kept him within his income; but with her had died all such right-mindedness, and from that period he had been constantly exceeding it.
He had given her some hints of it the last spring in town; he had gone so far even as to say, " Can we retrench?
Does it occur to you that there is any one article in which we can retrench?
But these measures, however good in themselves, were insufficient for the real extent of the evil, the whole of which Sir Walter found himself obliged to confess to her soon afterwards.
Elizabeth had nothing to propose of deeper efficacy.
She felt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her father; and they were neither of them able to devise any means of lessening their expenses without compromising their dignity, or relinquishing their comforts in a way not to be borne.
There was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose of; but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no difference.
He had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the power, but he would never condescend to sell.
No; he would never disgrace his name so far.
The Kellynch estate should be transmitted whole and entire, as he had received it.
Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it much serious consideration.
She was a woman rather of sound than of quick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this instance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles.
She was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour; but she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings, as solicitous for the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was due to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be.
She was a benevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments, most correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with manners that were held a standard of good-breeding.
She had a cultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent; but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a value for rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those who possessed them.
They must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt.
But she was very anxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and Elizabeth.
She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations, and she did what nobody else thought of doing: she consulted Anne, who never seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the question.
She consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in marking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to Sir Walter.
Every emendation of Anne's had been on the side of honesty against importance.
She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete reformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of indifference for everything but justice and equity.
What will he be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have done, or ought to do?
There will be nothing singular in his case; and it is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as it always does of our conduct.
I have great hope of prevailing.
We must be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has contracted debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the feelings of the gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father, there is still more due to the character of an honest man.
This was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be proceeding, his friends to be urging him.
She considered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all the expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure, and saw no dignity in anything short of it.
She wanted it to be prescribed, and felt as a duty.
She rated Lady Russell's influence highly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own conscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty in persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation.
Her knowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the sacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of both, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle reductions.
How Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little consequence.
Lady Russell's had no success at all: could not be put up with, were not to be borne.
every comfort of life knocked off!
Journeys, London, servants, horses, table-contractions and restrictions every where!
To live no longer with the decencies even of a private gentleman!
No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once, than remain in it on such disgraceful terms.
The hint was immediately taken up by Mr Shepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter's retrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done without a change of abode.
It did not appear to him that Sir Walter could materially alter his style of living in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient dignity to support.
In any other place Sir Walter might judge for himself; and would be looked up to, as regulating the modes of life in whatever way he might choose to model his household.
Sir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very few days more of doubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was settled, and the first outline of this important change made out.
There had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in the country.
All Anne's wishes had been for the latter.
A small house in their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell's society, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her ambition.
But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something very opposite from her inclination fixed on.
She disliked Bath, and did not think it agreed with her; and Bath was to be her home.
Sir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr Shepherd felt that he could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to dissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred.
It was a much safer place for a gentleman in his predicament: he might there be important at comparatively little expense.
Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes.
It would be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in his own neighbourhood.
Anne herself would have found the mortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's feelings they must have been dreadful.
Anne had been too little from home, too little seen.
Her spirits were not high.
A larger society would improve them.
She wanted her to be more known.
The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for Sir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very material part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the beginning.
He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the hands of others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir Walter's have found too much.
Kellynch Hall was to be let.
This, however, was a profound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own circle.
Sir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to design letting his house.
Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word " advertise," but never dared approach it again.
How quick come the reasons for approving what we like!
Lady Russell had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir Walter and his family were to remove from the country.
Elizabeth had been lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted.
It was with the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an unprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional burden of two children.
Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and seemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because Elizabeth deserved it.
She had never received from her more than outward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against previous inclination.
This peace will be turning all our rich naval officers ashore.
They will be all wanting a home.
Could not be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants, very responsible tenants.
Many a noble fortune has been made during the war.
If a rich admiral were to come in our way, Sir Walter --
A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him; rather the greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many before; hey, Shepherd?
Mr Shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit, and then added --
I have had a little knowledge of their methods of doing business; and I am free to confess that they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make desirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with.
But soon afterwards, rising and pacing the room, he observed sarcastically --
I have known a good deal of the profession; and besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful in all their ways!
These valuable pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if you chose to leave them, would be perfectly safe.
Everything in and about the house would be taken such excellent care of!
The gardens and shrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as they are now.
You need not be afraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being neglected.
I am not particularly disposed to favour a tenant.
The park would be open to him of course, and few navy officers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range; but what restrictions I might impose on the use of the pleasure-grounds, is another thing.
I am not fond of the idea of my shrubberies being always approachable; and I should recommend Miss Elliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden.
I am very little disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any extraordinary favour, I assure you, be he sailor or soldier.
After a short pause, Mr Shepherd presumed to say --
Your interest, Sir Walter, is in pretty safe hands.
Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant has more than his just rights.
I venture to hint, that Sir Walter Elliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be for him.
Sailors work hard enough for their comforts, we must all allow.
What Miss Anne says, is very true," was Mr Shepherd's rejoinder, and " Oh!
certainly," was his daughter's; but Sir Walter's remark was, soon afterwards --
was the reply, and with a look of surprise.
I have observed it all my life.
A man is in greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one whose father, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of becoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other line.
said I to a friend of mine who was standing near, (Sir Basil Morley).
cried Sir Basil, 'it is Admiral Baldwin.
What do you take his age to be?'
Picture to yourselves my amazement; I shall not easily forget Admiral Baldwin.
I never saw quite so wretched an example of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I know it is the same with them all: they are all knocked about, and exposed to every climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen.
It is a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach Admiral Baldwin's age.
Have a little mercy on the poor men.
We are not all born to be handsome.
The sea is no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; I have observed it; they soon lose the look of youth.
But then, is not it the same with many other professions, perhaps most other?
Soldiers, in active service, are not at all better off: and even in the quieter professions, there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the body, which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect of time.
was Sir Walter's cold suspicious inquiry.
Mr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman's family, and mentioned a place; and Anne, after the little pause which followed, added --
He was in the Trafalgar action, and has been in the East Indies since; he was stationed there, I believe, several years.
Mr Shepherd was eloquent on the subject; pointing out all the circumstances of the Admiral's family, which made him peculiarly desirable as a tenant.
He was a married man, and without children; the very state to be wished for.
A house was never taken good care of, Mr Shepherd observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture might not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as where there were many children.
A lady, without a family, was the very best preserver of furniture in the world.
He had seen Mrs Croft, too; she was at Taunton with the admiral, and had been present almost all the time they were talking the matter over.
At this moment I cannot recollect his name, though I have heard it so lately.
Penelope, my dear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at Monkford: Mrs Croft's brother?
But Mrs Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot, that she did not hear the appeal.
I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose.
After waiting another moment --
Mr Shepherd was all gratitude.
Mr Wentworth was the very man.
He had the curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two or three years.
Came there about the year -5, I take it.
You remember him, I am sure.
ay- Mr Wentworth, the curate of Monkford.
You misled me by the term gentleman.
I thought you were speaking of some man of property: Mr Wentworth was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected; nothing to do with the Strafford family.
One wonders how the names of many of our nobility become so common.
Sir Walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the world to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials, than Admiral Croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer.
So far went his understanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in the Admiral's situation in life, which was just high enough, and not too high.
An admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at the same time, can never make a baronet look small.
In all their dealings and intercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence.
Nothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth: but her inclination was growing so strong for a removal, that she was happy to have it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand; and not a word to suspend decision was uttered by her.
He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling.
Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail.
They were gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love.
It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted.
A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one.
Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter.
He thought it a very degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered and pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one.
Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence!
It must not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from one who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be prevented.
Captain Wentworth had no fortune.
He had been lucky in his profession; but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing.
But he was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour, he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to everything he wanted.
He had always been lucky; he knew he should be so still.
Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently.
His sanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on her.
She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil.
It only added a dangerous character to himself.
He was brilliant, he was headstrong.
Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to imprudence a horror.
She deprecated the connexion in every light.
Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could combat.
She was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing: indiscreet, improper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it.
But it was not a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it.
Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given him up.
He had left the country in consequence.
A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance; but not with a few months ended Anne's share of suffering from it.
Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect.
No one had ever come within the Kellynch circle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he stood in her memory.
No second attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, in the small limits of the society around them.
They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change, on the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never alluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently from what she had been made to think at nineteen.
All his sanguine expectations, all his confidence had been justified.
His genius and ardour had seemed to foresee and to command his prosperous path.
He had, very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would follow, had taken place.
He had distinguished himself, and early gained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures, have made a handsome fortune.
She had only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married.
How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been!
how eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Providence!
She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.
With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not hear that Captain Wentworth's sister was likely to live at Kellynch without a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea.
She often told herself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently to feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no evil.
She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and apparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in the secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of it.
That brother had been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and, moreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no human creature's having heard of it from him.
With these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself and the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch, and Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not involve any particular awkwardness.
This meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided the whole business at once.
The Baronet will never set the Thames on fire, but there seems to be no harm in him.
reciprocal compliments, which would have been esteemed about equal.
The Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as Sir Walter proposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there was no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement.
It would be most right, and most wise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others.
Something occurred, however, to give her a different duty.
This invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's difficulties, and it was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till Lady Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be divided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge.
Lady Russell was extremely sorry that such a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved, and feared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay's being of so much use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore aggravation.
Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell.
With a great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often wished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results the most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than possible.
She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea of the kind.
Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that she could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her sister.
She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the event of such a reverse would be so much more to be pitied than herself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for giving no warning.
She spoke, and seemed only to offend.
Elizabeth could not conceive how such an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered for each party's perfectly knowing their situation.
And as to my father, I really should not have thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our sakes, need be suspected now.
If Mrs Clay were a very beautiful woman, I grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that anything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a degrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy.
But poor Mrs Clay who, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably pretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect safety.
One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her personal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times.
That tooth of her's and those freckles.
Freckles do not disgust me so very much as they do him.
I have known a face not materially disfigured by a few, but he abominates them.
You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay's freckles.
However, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this point than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you to be advising me.
Anne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of doing good.
Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be made observant by it.
The last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter, Miss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath.
Her friend was not in better spirits than herself.
Lady Russell felt this break-up of the family exceedingly.
Their respectability was as dear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by habit.
Accordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at Uppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell's journey.
Here Anne had often been staying.
She knew the ways of Uppercross as well as those of Kellynch.
The two families were so continually meeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's house at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary alone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost a matter of course.
Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary had not Anne's understanding nor temper.
While well, and happy, and properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits; but any indisposition sunk her completely.
She had no resources for solitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of fancying herself neglected and ill-used.
In person, she was inferior to both sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of being " a fine girl.
She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty little drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been gradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two children; and, on Anne's appearing, greeted her with --
I began to think I should never see you.
I am so ill I can hardly speak.
I have not seen a creature the whole morning!
Suppose I were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not able to ring the bell!
So, Lady Russell would not get out.
I do not think she has been in this house three times this summer.
Anne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband.
I have not seen him since seven o'clock.
He would go, though I told him how ill I was.
He said he should not stay out long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one.
I assure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning.
Little Charles does not mind a word I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad.
How are your neighbours at the Great House?
I have not seen one of them to-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but without getting off his horse; and though I told him how ill I was, not one of them have been near me.
It did not happen to suit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never put themselves out of their way.
They talk and laugh a great deal too much for me.
Anne, I am so very unwell!
It was quite unkind of you not to come on Thursday.
what can you possibly have to do?
More than I can recollect in a moment; but I can tell you some.
I have been making a duplicate of the catalogue of my father's books and pictures.
I have been several times in the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him understand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell.
I was told that they wished it.
But all these things took up a great deal of time.
and after a moment's pause, " but you have never asked me one word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday.
I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you must have been obliged to give up the party.
I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter with me till this morning.
It would have been strange if I had not gone.
One always knows beforehand what the dinner will be, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a carriage of one's own.
Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so crowded!
They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr Musgrove always sits forward.
So, there was I, crowded into the back seat with Henrietta and Louise; and I think it very likely that my illness to-day may be owing to it.
A little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on Anne's side produced nearly a cure on Mary's.
She could soon sit upright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by dinner-time.
Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end of the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and then she was well enough to propose a little walk.
said she, when they were ready.
but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible.
They ought to feel what is due to you as my sister.
However, we may as well go and sit with them a little while, and when we have that over, we can enjoy our walk.
Anne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent; but she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that, though there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither family could now do without it.
could the originals of the portraits against the wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an overthrow of all order and neatness!
The portraits themselves seemed to be staring in astonishment.
The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration, perhaps of improvement.
The father and mother were in the old English style, and the young people in the new.
Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a very good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated, and not at all elegant.
Their children had more modern minds and manners.
Their dress had every advantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely good, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence at home, and favourites abroad.
They were received with great cordiality.
Nothing seemed amiss on the side of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well knew, the least to blame.
The half hour was chatted away pleasantly enough; and she was not at all surprised at the end of it, to have their walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary's particular invitation.
Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and idea.
and this, without much waiting for an answer; or in the young ladies'addition of, " I hope we shall be in Bath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a good situation: none of your Queen Squares for us!
or in the anxious supplement from Mary, of-" Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off, when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!
She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think with heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one such truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell.
The Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own horses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully occupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours, dress, dancing, and music.
She acknowledged it to be very fitting, that every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of discourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the one she was now transplanted into.
With the prospect of spending at least two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to clothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of Uppercross as possible.
She had no dread of these two months.
Mary was not so repulsive and unsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers; neither was there anything among the other component parts of the cottage inimical to comfort.
She was always on friendly terms with her brother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and respected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of interest, amusement, and wholesome exertion.
As it was, he did nothing with much zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without benefit from books or anything else.
As to the management of their children, his theory was much better than his wife's, and his practice not so bad.
One of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her being treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too much in the secret of the complaints of each house.
Known to have some influence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least receiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable.
I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might persuade him that I really am very ill-a great deal worse than I ever own.
And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity of being alone with Anne, to say, " Oh!
Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing Mrs Charles had a little of your method with those children.
They are quite different creatures with you!
But to be sure, in general they are so spoilt!
It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of managing them.
They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen, poor little dears!
without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more how they should be treated --!
how troublesome they are sometimes.
I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them at our house so often as I otherwise should.
She had this communication, moreover, from Mary.
I meet them wherever I go; and I declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing something of them.
If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells me, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them.
Mrs Charles quite swears by her, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the watch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of mentioning it.
Again, it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great House with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was to be considered so much at home as to lose her place.
Nobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be more becoming in her not to be always insisting on it.
It is not that mamma cares about it the least in the world, but I know it is taken notice of by many persons.
How was Anne to set all these matters to rights?
She could do little more than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to the other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between such near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant for her sister's benefit.
In all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well.
She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to herself; but this was no new sensation.
Excepting one short period of her life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste.
In music she had been always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove's fond partiality for their own daughters'performance, and total indifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for their sakes, than mortification for her own.
The party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company.
The neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by everybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors by invitation and by chance, than any other family.
There were more completely popular.
The girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally, in an unpremeditated little ball.
how those little fingers of yours fly about!
So passed the first three weeks.
Michaelmas came; and now Anne's heart must be in Kellynch again.
A beloved home made over to others; all the precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own other eyes and other limbs!
She could not think of much else on the 29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening from Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month, exclaimed, " Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to Kellynch?
I am glad I did not think of it before.
The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be visited.
Mary deplored the necessity for herself.
She should put it off as long as she could;" but was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on an early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary agitation, when she came back.
Anne had very sincerely rejoiced in there being no means of her going.
She wished, however to see the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned.
Mrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness, and vigour of form, which gave importance to her person.
Her manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust of herself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to coarseness, however, or any want of good humour.
She was quite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage, till for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft's suddenly saying-
Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion she certainly had not.
She could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs Croft's next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke, that she had said nothing which might not do for either brother.
She immediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be thinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame at her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their former neighbour's present state with proper interest.
The rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she heard the Admiral say to Mary --
She could not, however, reach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether anything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the Crofts had previously been calling.
The folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at the Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the youngest Miss Musgrove walked in.
I am come on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this evening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard!
And we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse her more than the piano-forte.
I will tell you why she is out of spirits.
When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here afterwards, did not they?
And upon looking over his letters and things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard!
So we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon such gloomy things.
Mr Musgrove was, in a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the cottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful companions could give them.
She found, however, that it was one to which she must inure herself.
Since he actually was expected in the country, she must teach herself to be insensible on such points.
The resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening.
A very few days more, and Captain Wentworth was known to be at Kellynch, and Mr Musgrove had called on him, and come back warm in his praise, and he was engaged with the Crofts to dine at Uppercross, by the end of another week.
It had been a great disappointment to Mr Musgrove to find that no earlier day could be fixed, so impatient was he to shew his gratitude, by seeing Captain Wentworth under his own roof, and welcoming him to all that was strongest and best in his cellars.
But a week must pass; only a week, in Anne's reckoning, and then, she supposed, they must meet; and soon she began to wish that she could feel secure even for a week.
Captain Wentworth made a very early return to Mr Musgrove's civility, and she was all but calling there in the same half hour.
She and Mary were actually setting forward for the Great House, where, as she afterwards learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when they were stopped by the eldest boy's being at that moment brought home in consequence of a bad fall.
The child's situation put the visit entirely aside; but she could not hear of her escape with indifference, even in the midst of the serious anxiety which they afterwards felt on his account.
His collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such injury received in the back, as roused the most alarming ideas.
Her brother's return was the first comfort; he could take best care of his wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary.
And in short, he had looked and said everything with such exquisite grace, that they could assure them all, their heads were both turned by him; and off they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and apparently more full of Captain Wentworth than of little Charles.
But in this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with " Oh!
no, indeed, Charles, I cannot bear to have you go away.
Only think if anything should happen?
The child had a good night, and was going on well the next day.
It must be a work of time to ascertain that no injury had been done to the spine; but Mr Robinson found nothing to increase alarm, and Charles Musgrove began, consequently, to feel no necessity for longer confinement.
The child was to be kept in bed and amused as quietly as possible; but what was there for a father to do?
This was quite a female case, and it would be highly absurd in him, who could be of no use at home, to shut himself up.
His father very much wished him to meet Captain Wentworth, and there being no sufficient reason against it, he ought to go; and it ended in his making a bold, public declaration, when he came in from shooting, of his meaning to dress directly, and dine at the other house.
Your sister being with you, my love, I have no scruple at all.
You would not like to leave him yourself, but you see I can be of no use.
Anne will send for me if anything is the matter.
Husbands and wives generally understand when opposition will be vain.
Mary knew, from Charles's manner of speaking, that he was quite determined on going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him.
She said nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as there was only Anne to hear --
If there is anything disagreeable going on men are always sure to get out of it, and Charles is as bad as any of them.
I must say it is very unfeeling of him to be running away from his poor little boy.
Talks of his being going on so well!
How does he know that he is going on well, or that there may not be a sudden change half an hour hence?
I did not think Charles would have been so unfeeling.
So here he is to go away and enjoy himself, and because I am the poor mother, I am not to be allowed to stir; and yet, I am sure, I am more unfit than anybody else to be about the child.
My being the mother is the very reason why my feelings should not be tried.
I am not at all equal to it.
You saw how hysterical I was yesterday.
You will not be hysterical again.
I dare say we shall have nothing to distress us.
I perfectly understand Mr Robinson's directions, and have no fears; and indeed, Mary, I cannot wonder at your husband.
Nursing does not belong to a man; it is not his province.
A sick child is always the mother's property: her own feelings generally make it so.
I have not nerves for the sort of thing.
Jemima is so careful; and she could send us word every hour how he was.
I really think Charles might as well have told his father we would all come.
I am not more alarmed about little Charles now than he is.
I was dreadfully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very different to-day.
Leave little Charles to my care.
Mr and Mrs Musgrove cannot think it wrong while I remain with him.
cried Mary, her eyes brightening.
that's a very good thought, very good, indeed.
To be sure, I may just as well go as not, for I am of no use at home-am I?
You, who have not a mother's feelings, are a great deal the properest person.
You can make little Charles do anything; he always minds you at a word.
It will be a great deal better than leaving him only with Jemima.
I shall certainly go; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as much as Charles, for they want me excessively to be acquainted with Captain Wentworth, and I know you do not mind being left alone.
An excellent thought of yours, indeed, Anne.
I will go and tell Charles, and get ready directly.
You can send for us, you know, at a moment's notice, if anything is the matter; but I dare say there will be nothing to alarm you.
I should not go, you may be sure, if I did not feel quite at ease about my dear child.
The next moment she was tapping at her husband's dressing-room door, and as Anne followed her up stairs, she was in time for the whole conversation, which began with Mary's saying, in a tone of great exultation --
If I were to shut myself up for ever with the child, I should not be able to persuade him to do anything he did not like.
Anne will stay; Anne undertakes to stay at home and take care of him.
It is Anne's own proposal, and so I shall go with you, which will be a great deal better, for I have not dined at the other house since Tuesday.
They were gone, she hoped, to be happy, however oddly constructed such happiness might seem; as for herself, she was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever likely to be hers.
She knew herself to be of the first utility to the child; and what was it to her if Frederick Wentworth were only half a mile distant, making himself agreeable to others?
She would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting.
Perhaps indifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances.
He must be either indifferent or unwilling.
Had he wished ever to see her again, he need not have waited till this time; he would have done what she could not but believe that in his place she should have done long ago, when events had been early giving him the independence which alone had been wanting.
Her brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance, and their visit in general.
There had been music, singing, talking, laughing, all that was most agreeable; charming manners in Captain Wentworth, no shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other perfectly, and he was coming the very next morning to shoot with Charles.
He wished to avoid seeing her.
He had inquired after her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight acquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged, actuated, perhaps, by the same view of escaping introduction when they were to meet.
Mary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive him, while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the most consoling, that it would soon be over.
In two minutes after Charles's preparation, the others appeared; they were in the drawing-room.
Charles shewed himself at the window, all was ready, their visitor had bowed and was gone, the Miss Musgroves were gone too, suddenly resolving to walk to the end of the village with the sportsmen: the room was cleared, and Anne might finish her breakfast as she could.
she repeated to herself again and again, in nervous gratitude.
Mary talked, but she could not attend.
They had been once more in the same room.
Soon, however, she began to reason with herself, and try to be feeling less.
Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been given up.
How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an interval had banished into distance and indistinctness!
What might not eight years do?
Events of every description, changes, alienations, removals-all, all must be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past-how natural, how certain too!
It included nearly a third part of her own life.
with all her reasoning, she found, that to retentive feelings eight years may be little more than nothing.
Now, how were his sentiments to be read?
Was this like wishing to avoid her?
And the next moment she was hating herself for the folly which asked the question.
On one other question which perhaps her utmost wisdom might not have prevented, she was soon spared all suspense; for, after the Miss Musgroves had returned and finished their visit at the Cottage she had this spontaneous information from Mary: --
Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they went away, and he said, 'You were so altered he should not have known you again.'
Mary had no feelings to make her respect her sister's in a common way, but she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar wound.
Anne fully submitted, in silent, deep mortification.
Doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for he was not altered, or not for the worse.
She had already acknowledged it to herself, and she could not think differently, let him think of her as he would.
No: the years which had destroyed her youth and bloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no respect lessening his personal advantages.
She had seen the same Frederick Wentworth.
These were words which could not but dwell with her.
Yet she soon began to rejoice that she had heard them.
They were of sobering tendency; they allayed agitation; they composed, and consequently must make her happier.
Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but without an idea that they would be carried round to her.
He had thought her wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had spoken as he felt.
He had not forgiven Anne Elliot.
She had used him ill, deserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a feebleness of character in doing so, which his own decided, confident temper could not endure.
She had given him up to oblige others.
It had been the effect of over-persuasion.
It had been weakness and timidity.
He had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman since whom he thought her equal; but, except from some natural sensation of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again.
Her power with him was gone for ever.
It was now his object to marry.
He was rich, and being turned on shore, fully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly tempted; actually looking round, ready to fall in love with all the speed which a clear head and a quick taste could allow.
He had a heart for either of the Miss Musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in short, for any pleasing young woman who came in his way, excepting Anne Elliot.
This was his only secret exception, when he said to his sister, in answer to her suppositions:--
Anybody between fifteen and thirty may have me for asking.
A little beauty, and a few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, and I am a lost man.
Should not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no society among women to make him nice?
He said it, she knew, to be contradicted.
His bright proud eye spoke the conviction that he was nice; and Anne Elliot was not out of his thoughts, when he more seriously described the woman he should wish to meet with.
If I am a fool, I shall be a fool indeed, for I have thought on the subject more than most men.
From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the same circle.
They were soon dining in company together at Mr Musgrove's, for the little boy's state could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings and other meetings.
There must be the same immediate association of thought, though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain.
They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the commonest civility required.
Once so much to each other!
There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to speak to one another.
Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted.
It was a perpetual estrangement.
When he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind.
From thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs Musgrove's who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying --
Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare say he would have been just such another by this time.
Anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs Musgrove relieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore, could not keep pace with the conversation of the others.
Quite worn out and broken up.
I was the last man who commanded her.
Hardly fit for service then.
Reported fit for home service for a year or two, and so I was sent off to the West Indies.
The girls looked all amazement.
But they have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that may just as well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to distinguish the very set who may be least missed.
cried the Admiral, " what stuff these young fellows talk!
Never was a better sloop than the Asp in her day.
For an old built sloop, you would not see her equal.
He knows there must have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at the same time.
Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more interest than his.
It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a very great object, I wanted to be doing something.
What should a young fellow like you do ashore for half a year together?
If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be afloat again.
she was a dear old Asp to me.
She did all that I wanted.
I brought her into Plymouth; and here another instance of luck.
We had not been six hours in the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights, and which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch with the Great Nation not having much improved our condition.
Four-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought about me.
Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror.
Charles, my dear," (beckoning him to her), " do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother.
Dick had been left ill at Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Wentworth.
but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of by such a good friend.
Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away.
those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia!
How fast I made money in her.
A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together off the Western Islands.
You know how much he wanted money: worse than myself.
I shall never forget his happiness.
He felt it all, so much for her sake.
I wished for him again the next summer, when I had still the same luck in the Mediterranean.
said Mrs Musgrove, " it was a lucky day for us, when you were put captain into that ship.
We shall never forget what you did.
Her feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in part, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts, looked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more.
continued Mrs Musgrove; " he was grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care!
it would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you.
I assure you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you.
They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily made room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove.
It was no insignificant barrier, indeed.
Personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary proportions.
A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep affliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world.
But, fair or not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will patronize in vain-which taste cannot tolerate-which ridicule will seize.
I am glad I was not a week later then.
The Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry.
He defended himself; though professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on board a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few hours might comprehend.
It is rather from feeling how impossible it is, with all one's efforts, and all one's sacrifices, to make the accommodations on board such as women ought to have.
There can be no want of gallantry, Admiral, in rating the claims of women to every personal comfort high, and this is what I do.
I hate to hear of women on board, or to see them on board; and no ship under my command shall ever convey a family of ladies anywhere, if I can help it.
This brought his sister upon him.
But I cannot believe it of you.
Women may be as comfortable on board, as in the best house in England.
I believe I have lived as much on board as most women, and I know nothing superior to the accommodations of a man-of-war.
I declare I have not a comfort or an indulgence about me, even at Kellynch Hall," (with a kind bow to Anne), " beyond what I always had in most of the ships I have lived in; and they have been five altogether.
Where was this superfine, extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then?
I would assist any brother officer's wife that I could, and I would bring anything of Harville's from the world's end, if he wanted it.
But do not imagine that I did not feel it an evil in itself.
Such a number of women and children have no right to be comfortable on board.
Pray, what would become of us poor sailors'wives, who often want to be conveyed to one port or another, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings?
We none of us expect to be in smooth water all our days.
my dear," said the Admiral, " when he had got a wife, he will sing a different tune.
When he is married, if we have the good luck to live to another war, we shall see him do as you and I, and a great many others, have done.
We shall have him very thankful to anybody that will bring him his wife.
you will think very differently, when you are married.'
I can only say, 'No, I shall not;' and then they say again, 'Yes, you will,' and there is an end of it.
He got up and moved away.
said Mrs Musgrove to Mrs Croft.
I have crossed the Atlantic four times, and have been once to the East Indies, and back again, and only once; besides being in different places about home: Cork, and Lisbon, and Gibraltar.
But I never went beyond the Streights, and never was in the West Indies.
We do not call Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies.
Mrs Musgrove had not a word to say in dissent; she could not accuse herself of having ever called them anything in the whole course of her life.
When you come to a frigate, of course, you are more confined; though any reasonable woman may be perfectly happy in one of them; and I can safely say, that the happiest part of my life has been spent on board a ship.
While we were together, you know, there was nothing to be feared.
I have always been blessed with excellent health, and no climate disagrees with me.
A little disordered always the first twenty-four hours of going to sea, but never knew what sickness was afterwards.
The only time I ever really suffered in body or mind, the only time that I ever fancied myself unwell, or had any ideas of danger, was the winter that I passed by myself at Deal, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in the North Seas.
I lived in perpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of imaginary complaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when I should hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing ever ailed me, and I never met with the smallest inconvenience.
I am quite of your opinion, Mrs Croft," was Mrs Musgrove's hearty answer.
I am quite of your opinion.
I know what it is, for Mr Musgrove always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they are over, and he is safe back again.
The evening ended with dancing.
On its being proposed, Anne offered her services, as usual; and though her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she sat at the instrument, she was extremely glad to be employed, and desired nothing in return but to be unobserved.
It was a merry, joyous party, and no one seemed in higher spirits than Captain Wentworth.
She felt that he had every thing to elevate him which general attention and deference, and especially the attention of all the young women, could do.
If he were a little spoilt by such universal, such eager admiration, who could wonder?
These were some of the thoughts which occupied Anne, while her fingers were mechanically at work, proceeding for half an hour together, equally without error, and without consciousness.
The answer was, " Oh, no; never; she has quite given up dancing.
She is never tired of playing.
Once, too, he spoke to her.
She had left the instrument on the dancing being over, and he had sat down to try to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss Musgroves an idea of.
Unintentionally she returned to that part of the room; he saw her, and, instantly rising, said, with studied politeness --
Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches.
His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything.
Captain Wentworth was come to Kellynch as to a home, to stay as long as he liked, being as thoroughly the object of the Admiral's fraternal kindness as of his wife's.
He had intended, on first arriving, to proceed very soon into Shropshire, and visit the brother settled in that country, but the attractions of Uppercross induced him to put this off.
It was soon Uppercross with him almost every day.
Hitherto there had been but one opinion of Captain Wentworth among the Musgroves and their dependencies.
It was unvarying, warm admiration everywhere; but this intimate footing was not more than established, when a certain Charles Hayter returned among them, to be a good deal disturbed by it, and to think Captain Wentworth very much in the way.
Charles Hayter was the eldest of all the cousins, and a very amiable, pleasing young man, between whom and Henrietta there had been a considerable appearance of attachment previous to Captain Wentworth's introduction.
He was in orders; and having a curacy in the neighbourhood, where residence was not required, lived at his father's house, only two miles from Uppercross.
A short absence from home had left his fair one unguarded by his attentions at this critical period, and when he came back he had the pain of finding very altered manners, and of seeing Captain Wentworth.
Mrs Musgrove and Mrs Hayter were sisters.
They had each had money, but their marriages had made a material difference in their degree of consequence.
The two families had always been on excellent terms, there being no pride on one side, and no envy on the other, and only such a consciousness of superiority in the Miss Musgroves, as made them pleased to improve their cousins.
Charles's attentions to Henrietta had been observed by her father and mother without any disapprobation.
Henrietta fully thought so herself, before Captain Wentworth came; but from that time Cousin Charles had been very much forgotten.
Which of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Wentworth was as yet quite doubtful, as far as Anne's observation reached.
Henrietta was perhaps the prettiest, Louisa had the higher spirits; and she knew not now, whether the more gentle or the more lively character were most likely to attract him.
Mr and Mrs Musgrove, either from seeing little, or from an entire confidence in the discretion of both their daughters, and of all the young men who came near them, seemed to leave everything to take its chance.
Charles gave it for Louisa, Mary for Henrietta, but quite agreeing that to have him marry either could be extremely delightful.
Charles " had never seen a pleasanter man in his life; and from what he had once heard Captain Wentworth himself say, was very sure that he had not made less than twenty thousand pounds by the war.
Here was a fortune at once; besides which, there would be the chance of what might be done in any future war; and he was sure Captain Wentworth was as likely a man to distinguish himself as any officer in the navy.
it would be a capital match for either of his sisters.
If he should rise to any very great honours!
If he should ever be made a baronet!
That would be a noble thing, indeed, for Henrietta!
She would take place of me then, and Henrietta would not dislike that.
Sir Frederick and Lady Wentworth!
It would be but a new creation, however, and I never think much of your new creations.
It suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred on the very account of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an end to.
She looked down very decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought it would be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between the families renewed-very sad for herself and her children.
I do not think any young woman has a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient to the principal part of her family, and be giving bad connections to those who have not been used to them.
And, pray, who is Charles Hayter?
Nothing but a country curate.
A most improper match for Miss Musgrove of Uppercross.
Her husband, however, would not agree with her here; for besides having a regard for his cousin, Charles Hayter was an eldest son, and he saw things as an eldest son himself.
The estate at Winthrop is not less than two hundred and fifty acres, besides the farm near Taunton, which is some of the best land in the country.
No, no; Henrietta might do worse than marry Charles Hayter; and if she has him, and Louisa can get Captain Wentworth, I shall be very well satisfied.
She took hardly any notice of Charles Hayter yesterday.
I wish you had been there to see her behaviour.
And as to Captain Wentworth's liking Louisa as well as Henrietta, it is nonsense to say so; for he certainly does like Henrietta a great deal the best.
But Charles is so positive!
I wish you had been with us yesterday, for then you might have decided between us; and I am sure you would have thought as I did, unless you had been determined to give it against me.
A dinner at Mr Musgrove's had been the occasion when all these things should have been seen by Anne; but she had staid at home, under the mixed plea of a headache of her own, and some return of indisposition in little Charles.
She had thought only of avoiding Captain Wentworth; but an escape from being appealed to as umpire was now added to the advantages of a quiet evening.
As to Captain Wentworth's views, she deemed it of more consequence that he should know his own mind early enough not to be endangering the happiness of either sister, or impeaching his own honour, than that he should prefer Henrietta to Louisa, or Louisa to Henrietta.
Either of them would, in all probability, make him an affectionate, good-humoured wife.
Charles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and mortify him in his cousin's behaviour.
He had been absent only two Sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even to the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his present curacy, and obtaining that of Uppercross instead.
the zeal of the business was gone by.
It did not appear to me that-in short, you know, Dr Shirley must have a curate, and you had secured his promise.
One morning, very soon after the dinner at the Musgroves, at which Anne had not been present, Captain Wentworth walked into the drawing-room at the Cottage, where were only herself and the little invalid Charles, who was lying on the sofa.
He continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, " I hope the little boy is better," was silent.
She was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy her patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very great satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little vestibule.
She hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the house; but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters easy-Charles Hayter, probably not at all better pleased by the sight of Captain Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of Anne.
She only attempted to say, " How do you do?
The others will be here presently.
Captain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not ill-disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to his attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the newspaper; and Captain Wentworth returned to his window.
Another minute brought another addition.
There being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his aunt would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten himself upon her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was about Charles, she could not shake him off.
She spoke to him, ordered, entreated, and insisted in vain.
Once she did contrive to push him away, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back again directly.
You are extremely troublesome.
I am very angry with you.
Do not you hear your aunt speak?
Come to me, Walter, come to cousin Charles.
But not a bit did Walter stir.
Her sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless.
She could not even thank him.
She could only hang over little Charles, with most disordered feelings.
It might have been an opportunity of watching the loves and jealousies of the four-they were now altogether; but she could stay for none of it.
It was evident that Charles Hayter was not well inclined towards Captain Wentworth.
But neither Charles Hayter's feelings, nor anybody's feelings, could interest her, till she had a little better arranged her own.
She was ashamed of herself, quite ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome by such a trifle; but so it was, and it required a long application of solitude and reflection to recover her.
Other opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur.
They were more in love with him; yet there it was not love.
It was a little fever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with some.
Charles Hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta had sometimes the air of being divided between them.
Anne longed for the power of representing to them all what they were about, and of pointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to.
She did not attribute guile to any.
It was the highest satisfaction to her to believe Captain Wentworth not in the least aware of the pain he was occasioning.
There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner.
He had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims of Charles Hayter.
He was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for accepting must be the word) of two young women at once.
After a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed to quit the field.
Three days had passed without his coming once to Uppercross; a most decided change.
He had even refused one regular invitation to dinner; and having been found on the occasion by Mr Musgrove with some large books before him, Mr and Mrs Musgrove were sure all could not be right, and talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death.
It was Mary's hope and belief that he had received a positive dismissal from Henrietta, and her husband lived under the constant dependence of seeing him to-morrow.
Anne could only feel that Charles Hayter was wise.
One morning, about this time Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth being gone a-shooting together, as the sisters in the Cottage were sitting quietly at work, they were visited at the window by the sisters from the Mansion-house.
When people come in this manner on purpose to ask us, how can one say no?
Just as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned.
They had taken out a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early.
Their time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready for this walk, and they entered into it with pleasure.
Anne's object was, not to be in the way of anybody; and where the narrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep with her brother and sister.
She occupied her mind as much as possible in such like musings and quotations; but it was not possible, that when within reach of Captain Wentworth's conversation with either of the Miss Musgroves, she should not try to hear it; yet she caught little very remarkable.
It was mere lively chat, such as any young persons, on an intimate footing, might fall into.
He was more engaged with Louisa than with Henrietta.
Louisa certainly put more forward for his notice than her sister.
This distinction appeared to increase, and there was one speech of Louisa's which struck her.
After one of the many praises of the day, which were continually bursting forth, Captain Wentworth added: --
They meant to take a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of these hills.
They talked of coming into this side of the country.
I wonder whereabouts they will upset to-day.
it does happen very often, I assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as lieve be tossed out as not.
You make the most of it, I know," cried Louisa, " but if it were really so, I should do just the same in her place.
If I loved a man, as she loves the Admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should ever separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven safely by anybody else.
It was spoken with enthusiasm.
cried he, catching the same tone; " I honour you!
And there was silence between them for a little while.
Anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again.
The sweet scenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet, fraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining happiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone together, blessed her memory.
She roused herself to say, as they struck by order into another path, " Is not this one of the ways to Winthrop?
But nobody heard, or, at least, nobody answered her.
Winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before them an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and buildings of a farm-yard.
Mary exclaimed, " Bless me!
Well now, I think we had better turn back; I am excessively tired.
Henrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin Charles walking along any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as Mary wished; but " No!
said Charles Musgrove, and " No, no!
cried Louisa more eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the matter warmly.
Charles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution of calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently, though more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too.
But this was one of the points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when he recommended the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at Winthrop, as she felt so tired, she resolutely answered, " Oh!
walking up that hill again would do her more harm than any sitting down could do her good;" and, in short, her look and manner declared, that go she would not.
Louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan; and, as she went a little way with them, down the hill, still talking to Henrietta, Mary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around her, and saying to Captain Wentworth --
But, I assure you, I have never been in the house above twice in my life.
She received no other answer, than an artificial, assenting smile, followed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which Anne perfectly knew the meaning of.
She turned through the same gate, but could not see them.
Anne found a nice seat for her, on a dry sunny bank, under the hedge-row, in which she had no doubt of their still being, in some spot or other.
Mary sat down for a moment, but it would not do; she was sure Louisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and she would go on till she overtook her.
Anne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down; and she very soon heard Captain Wentworth and Louisa in the hedge-row, behind her, as if making their way back along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the centre.
They were speaking as they drew near.
Louisa's voice was the first distinguished.
She seemed to be in the middle of some eager speech.
What Anne first heard was --
I could not bear that she should be frightened from the visit by such nonsense.
would I be turned back from doing a thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right, by the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person I may say?
No, I have no idea of being so easily persuaded.
When I have made up my mind, I have made it; and Henrietta seemed entirely to have made up hers to call at Winthrop to-day; and yet, she was as near giving it up, out of nonsensical complaisance!
I am almost ashamed to say it.
After the hints you gave just now, which did but confirm my own observations, the last time I was in company with him, I need not affect to have no comprehension of what is going on.
Your sister is an amiable creature; but yours is the character of decision and firmness, I see.
If you value her conduct or happiness, infuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can.
But this, no doubt, you have been always doing.
It is the worst evil of too yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be depended on.
You are never sure of a good impression being durable; everybody may sway it.
Let those who would be happy be firm.
Here is a nut," said he, catching one down from an upper bough.
Not a puncture, not a weak spot anywhere.
This nut," he continued, with playful solemnity, " while so many of his brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot, is still in possession of all the happiness that a hazel nut can be supposed capable of.
Then returning to his former earnest tone-" My first wish for all whom I am interested in, is that they should be firm.
If Louisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her November of life, she will cherish all her present powers of mind.
He had done, and was unanswered.
It would have surprised Anne if Louisa could have readily answered such a speech: words of such interest, spoken with such serious warmth!
She could imagine what Louisa was feeling.
For herself, she feared to move, lest she should be seen.
While she remained, a bush of low rambling holly protected her, and they were moving on.
Before they were beyond her hearing, however, Louisa spoke again.
She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride.
We do so wish that Charles had married Anne instead.
I suppose you know he wanted to marry Anne?
After a moment's pause, Captain Wentworth said --
I wish she had accepted him.
We should all have liked her a great deal better; and papa and mamma always think it was her great friend Lady Russell's doing, that she did not.
They think Charles might not be learned and bookish enough to please Lady Russell, and that therefore, she persuaded Anne to refuse him.
The sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished no more.
Her own emotions still kept her fixed.
She had much to recover from, before she could move.
The listener's proverbial fate was not absolutely hers; she had heard no evil of herself, but she had heard a great deal of very painful import.
She saw how her own character was considered by Captain Wentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity about her in his manner which must give her extreme agitation.
As soon as she could, she went after Mary, and having found, and walked back with her to their former station, by the stile, felt some comfort in their whole party being immediately afterwards collected, and once more in motion together.
Her spirits wanted the solitude and silence which only numbers could give.
Charles and Henrietta returned, bringing, as may be conjectured, Charles Hayter with them.
Henrietta looked a little ashamed, but very well pleased- Charles Hayter exceedingly happy: and they were devoted to each other almost from the first instant of their all setting forward for Uppercross.
Everything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing could be plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they were not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two.
In a long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they were thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of the three which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne necessarily belonged.
She joined Charles and Mary, and was tired enough to be very glad of Charles's other arm; but Charles, though in very good humour with her, was out of temper with his wife.
He and his wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home.
Upon hearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they kindly offered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it would save her a full mile, and they were going through Uppercross.
The invitation was general, and generally declined.
The Miss Musgroves were not at all tired, and Mary was either offended, by not being asked before any of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride could not endure to make a third in a one horse chaise.
The walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again, when Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something to his sister.
The something might be guessed by its effects.
Here is excellent room for three, I assure you.
If we were all like you, I believe we might sit four.
You must, indeed, you must.
Anne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to decline, she was not allowed to proceed.
She was in the carriage, and felt that he had placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest.
She was very much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these things made apparent.
This little circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before.
He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling.
Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief.
It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed.
Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at first unconsciously given.
They had travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said.
She then found them talking of " Frederick.
He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind.
Ay, this comes of the peace.
If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago.
We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war.
How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?
I had known you by character, however, long before.
I do not like having such things so long in hand.
I wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home one of these young ladies to Kellynch.
Then there would always be company for them.
And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly know one from the other.
One could not be connected with better people.
My dear Admiral, that post!
we shall certainly take that post.
The time now approached for Lady Russell's return: the day was even fixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was resettled, was looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and beginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it.
It would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within half a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and there must be intercourse between the two families.
They did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance now could do any good; and were Lady Russell to see them together, she might think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little.
These points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal from Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long enough.
Her usefulness to little Charles would always give some sweetness to the memory of her two months'visit there, but he was gaining strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for.
The conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a way which she had not at all imagined.
Captain Wentworth, after being unseen and unheard of at Uppercross for two whole days, appeared again among them to justify himself by a relation of what had kept him away.
A letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found him out at last, had brought intelligence of Captain Harville's being settled with his family at Lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite unknowingly, within twenty miles of each other.
Captain Harville had never been in good health since a severe wound which he received two years before, and Captain Wentworth's anxiety to see him had determined him to go immediately to Lyme.
He had been there for four-and-twenty hours.
The young people were all wild to see Lyme.
They were, consequently, to stay the night there, and not to be expected back till the next day's dinner.
After securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the inns, the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly down to the sea.
They were come too late in the year for any amusement or variety which Lyme, as a public place, might offer.
Captain Wentworth turned in to call on his friend; the others walked on, and he was to join them on the Cobb.
He had been engaged to Captain Harville's sister, and was now mourning her loss.
They had been a year or two waiting for fortune and promotion.
Fortune came, his prize-money as lieutenant being great; promotion, too, came at last; but Fanny Harville did not live to know it.
She had died the preceding summer while he was at sea.
Captain Wentworth believed it impossible for man to be more attached to woman than poor Benwick had been to Fanny Harville, or to be more deeply afflicted under the dreadful change.
He considered his disposition as of the sort which must suffer heavily, uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring manners, and a decided taste for reading, and sedentary pursuits.
To finish the interest of the story, the friendship between him and the Harvilles seemed, if possible, augmented by the event which closed all their views of alliance, and Captain Benwick was now living with them entirely.
The sympathy and good-will excited towards Captain Benwick was very great.
I cannot believe his prospects so blighted for ever.
He is younger than I am; younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man.
He will rally again, and be happy with another.
They all met, and were introduced.
Captain Harville was a tall, dark man, with a sensible, benevolent countenance; a little lame; and from strong features and want of health, looking much older than Captain Wentworth.
Captain Benwick looked, and was, the youngest of the three, and, compared with either of them, a little man.
He had a pleasing face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and drew back from conversation.
Captain Harville, though not equalling Captain Wentworth in manners, was a perfect gentleman, unaffected, warm, and obliging.
The dinner, already ordered at the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted as a excuse; but they seemed almost hurt that Captain Wentworth should have brought any such party to Lyme, without considering it as a thing of course that they should dine with them.
On quitting the Cobb, they all went in-doors with their new friends, and found rooms so small as none but those who invite from the heart could think capable of accommodating so many.
Captain Harville was no reader; but he had contrived excellent accommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves, for a tolerable collection of well-bound volumes, the property of Captain Benwick.
His lameness prevented him from taking much exercise; but a mind of usefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with constant employment within.
He drew, he varnished, he carpentered, he glued; he made toys for the children; he fashioned new netting-needles and pins with improvements; and if everything else was done, sat down to his large fishing-net at one corner of the room.
He ventured among them again, however, though his spirits certainly did not seem fit for the mirth of the party in general.
He was shy, and disposed to abstraction; but the engaging mildness of her countenance, and gentleness of her manners, soon had their effect; and Anne was well repaid the first trouble of exertion.
Anne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the next morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast.
They went to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine south-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so flat a shore admitted.
They praised the morning; gloried in the sea; sympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze-and were silent; till Henrietta suddenly began again with --
yes- I am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the sea-air always does good.
There can be no doubt of its having been of the greatest service to Dr Shirley, after his illness, last spring twelve-month.
He declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month, did him more good than all the medicine he took; and, that being by the sea, always makes him feel young again.
Now, I cannot help thinking it a pity that he does not live entirely by the sea.
I do think he had better leave Uppercross entirely, and fix at Lyme.
Do not you agree with me, that it is the best thing he could do, both for himself and Mrs Shirley?
She has cousins here, you know, and many acquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her, and I am sure she would be glad to get to a place where she could have medical attendance at hand, in case of his having another seizure.
Indeed I think it quite melancholy to have such excellent people as Dr and Mrs Shirley, who have been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last days in a place like Uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem shut out from all the world.
I wish his friends would propose it to him.
I really think they ought.
And, as to procuring a dispensation, there could be no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character.
My only doubt is, whether anything could persuade him to leave his parish.
He is so very strict and scrupulous in his notions; over-scrupulous I must say.
Do not you think, Anne, it is being over-scrupulous?
Do not you think it is quite a mistaken point of conscience, when a clergyman sacrifices his health for the sake of duties, which may be just as well performed by another person?
And at Lyme too, only seventeen miles off, he would be near enough to hear, if people thought there was anything to complain of.
Anne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered into the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of a young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower standard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence?
I have always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence with everybody!
I always look upon her as able to persuade a person to anything!
I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite afraid of her, because she is so very clever; but I respect her amazingly, and wish we had such a neighbour at Uppercross.
They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be ready; but Louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards that she had something to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her into the town.
They were all at her disposal.
When they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a gentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew back, and stopped to give them way.
They ascended and passed him; and as they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a degree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of.
She was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also produced.
It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly.
Captain Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it.
He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, " That man is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again.
She had before conjectured him to be a stranger like themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his servant.
Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea.
He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an agreeable person.
Anne felt that she should like to know who he was.
They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost the first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to the window.
It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away.
It was driven by a servant in mourning.
cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne, " it is the very man we passed.
The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table.
The waiter came into the room soon afterwards.
Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London.
Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter.
cried Mary; " it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr Elliot, it must, indeed!
Charles, Anne, must not it?
In mourning, you see, just as our Mr Elliot must be.
In the very same inn with us!
Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot?
Pray sir," turning to the waiter, " did not you hear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch family?
cried Mary in an ecstasy, " just as I said!
Heir to Sir Walter Elliot!
I was sure that would come out, if it was so.
Depend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to publish, wherever he goes.
But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary!
I wish I had looked at him more.
I wish we had been aware in time, who it was, that he might have been introduced to us.
What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other!
Do you think he had the Elliot countenance?
I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance, I wonder the arms did not strike me!
the great-coat was hanging over the panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am sure, I should have observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in mourning, one should have known him by the livery.
When she could command Mary's attention, Anne quietly tried to convince her that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been on such terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all desirable.
At the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to have seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was undoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense.
I think my father certainly ought to hear of it; do mention all about him.
Anne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she considered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what ought to be suppressed.
The offence which had been given her father, many years back, she knew; Elizabeth's particular share in it she suspected; and that Mr Elliot's idea always produced irritation in both was beyond a doubt.
Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of keeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell on Anne.
Breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and Mrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take their last walk about Lyme.
They ought to be setting off for Uppercross by one, and in the mean while were to be all together, and out of doors as long as they could.
Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all fairly in the street.
I wish he could have such company oftener.
It is bad for him, I know, to be shut up as he is; but what can we do?
I was at Plymouth dreading to hear of him; he sent in letters, but the Grappler was under orders for Portsmouth.
There the news must follow him, but who was to tell it?
not I. I would as soon have been run up to the yard-arm.
Nobody could do it, but that good fellow " (pointing to Captain Wentworth.)
He stood his chance for the rest; wrote up for leave of absence, but without waiting the return, travelled night and day till he got to Portsmouth, rowed off to the Grappler that instant, and never left the poor fellow for a week.
That's what he did, and nobody else could have saved poor James.
You may think, Miss Elliot, whether he is dear to us!
Anne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much in reply as her own feeling could accomplish, or as his seemed able to bear, for he was too much affected to renew the subject, and when he spoke again, it was of something totally different.
Anne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her.
Lord Byron's " dark blue seas " could not fail of being brought forward by their present view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible.
It was soon drawn, perforce another way.
In all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation was delightful to her.
The hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however.
She was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again.
There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death.
The horror of the moment to all who stood around!
Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence.
were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone.
I can support her myself.
Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them.
He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-" True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested --
He knows where a surgeon is to be found.
Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity.
Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth.
Both seemed to look to her for directions.
What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?
Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her.
Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn.
Musgrove, take care of the others.
They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them.
Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot.
Shocked as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done.
She must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there.
Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness.
This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility.
Mary, too, was growing calmer.
The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible.
They were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless.
The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully.
The tone, the look, with which " Thank God!
Louisa's limbs had escaped.
There was no injury but to the head.
It now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be done, as to their general situation.
They were now able to speak to each other and consult.
That Louisa must remain where she was, however distressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such trouble, did not admit a doubt.
Her removal was impossible.
The Harvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all gratitude.
They had looked forward and arranged everything before the others began to reflect.
Captain Benwick must give up his room to them, and get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled.
Mrs Harville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had lived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such another.
Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by day or night.
And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of feeling irresistible.
Charles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the three in consultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of perplexity and terror.
At first, they were capable of nothing more to the purpose than such exclamations; but, after a while, Captain Wentworth, exerting himself, said --
Every minute is valuable.
Some one must resolve on being off for Uppercross instantly.
Musgrove, either you or I must go.
Charles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away.
He would be as little incumbrance as possible to Captain and Mrs Harville; but as to leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor would.
So far it was decided; and Henrietta at first declared the same.
She, however, was soon persuaded to think differently.
The usefulness of her staying!
She who had not been able to remain in Louisa's room, or to look at her, without sufferings which made her worse than helpless!
She was forced to acknowledge that she could do no good, yet was still unwilling to be away, till, touched by the thought of her father and mother, she gave it up; she consented, she was anxious to be at home.
The plan had reached this point, when Anne, coming quietly down from Louisa's room, could not but hear what followed, for the parlour door was open.
But as to the rest, as to the others, if one stays to assist Mrs Harville, I think it need be only one.
Mrs Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne.
She paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so spoken of.
The other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then appeared.
She coloured deeply, and he recollected himself and moved away.
She expressed herself most willing, ready, happy to remain.
A bed on the floor in Louisa's room would be sufficient for her, if Mrs Harville would but think so.
One thing more, and all seemed arranged.
Captain Wentworth now hurried off to get everything ready on his part, and to be soon followed by the two ladies.
When the plan was made known to Mary, however, there was an end of all peace in it.
She was so wretched and so vehement, complained so much of injustice in being expected to go away instead of Anne; Anne, who was nothing to Louisa, while she was her sister, and had the best right to stay in Henrietta's stead!
Why was not she to be as useful as Anne?
And to go home without Charles, too, without her husband!
And in short, she said more than her husband could long withstand, and as none of the others could oppose when he gave way, there was no help for it; the change of Mary for Anne was inevitable.
Anne had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and ill-judging claims of Mary; but so it must be, and they set off for the town, Charles taking care of his sister, and Captain Benwick attending to her.
She gave a moment's recollection, as they hurried along, to the little circumstances which the same spots had witnessed earlier in the morning.
There she had listened to Henrietta's schemes for Dr Shirley's leaving Uppercross; farther on, she had first seen Mr Elliot; a moment seemed all that could now be given to any one but Louisa, or those who were wrapt up in her welfare.
She endeavoured to be composed, and to be just.
Without emulating the feelings of an Emma towards her Henry, she would have attended on Louisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and she hoped he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink unnecessarily from the office of a friend.
In the mean while she was in the carriage.
He had handed them both in, and placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these circumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted Lyme.
How the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their manners; what was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not foresee.
It was all quite natural, however.
He was devoted to Henrietta; always turning towards her; and when he spoke at all, always with the view of supporting her hopes and raising her spirits.
In general, his voice and manner were studiously calm.
To spare Henrietta from agitation seemed the governing principle.
Once only, when she had been grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to the Cobb, bitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as if wholly overcome --
that I had not given way to her at the fatal moment!
But so eager and so resolute!
She thought it could scarcely escape him to feel that a persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favour of happiness as a very resolute character.
Anne was astonished to recognise the same hills and the same objects so soon.
Their actual speed, heightened by some dread of the conclusion, made the road appear but half as long as on the day before.
In a low, cautious voice, he said: --
She must not appear at first.
I have been thinking whether you had not better remain in the carriage with her, while I go in and break it to Mr and Mrs Musgrove.
Do you think this is a good plan?
She did: he was satisfied, and said no more.
But the remembrance of the appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of deference for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a sort of parting proof, its value did not lessen.
They had an early account from Lyme the next morning.
Louisa was much the same.
No symptoms worse than before had appeared.
Charles came a few hours afterwards, to bring a later and more particular account.
He was tolerably cheerful.
A speedy cure must not be hoped, but everything was going on as well as the nature of the case admitted.
In speaking of the Harvilles, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of their kindness, especially of Mrs Harville's exertions as a nurse.
He and Mary had been persuaded to go early to their inn last night.
Mary had been hysterical again this morning.
When he came away, she was going to walk out with Captain Benwick, which, he hoped, would do her good.
He almost wished she had been prevailed on to come home the day before; but the truth was, that Mrs Harville left nothing for anybody to do.
Charles was to return to Lyme the same afternoon, and his father had at first half a mind to go with him, but the ladies could not consent.
It would be going only to multiply trouble to the others, and increase his own distress; and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon.
Vague wishes of getting Sarah thither, had occurred before to Mrs Musgrove and Henrietta; but without Anne, it would hardly have been resolved on, and found practicable so soon.
They were indebted, the next day, to Charles Hayter, for all the minute knowledge of Louisa, which it was so essential to obtain every twenty-four hours.
He made it his business to go to Lyme, and his account was still encouraging.
The intervals of sense and consciousness were believed to be stronger.
Every report agreed in Captain Wentworth's appearing fixed in Lyme.
Anne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which they all dreaded.
They were wretched comforters for one another.
And so much was said in this way, that Anne thought she could not do better than impart among them the general inclination to which she was privy, and persuaded them all to go to Lyme at once.
She had little difficulty; it was soon determined that they would go; go to-morrow, fix themselves at the inn, or get into lodgings, as it suited, and there remain till dear Louisa could be moved.
She was the last, excepting the little boys at the cottage, she was the very last, the only remaining one of all that had filled and animated both houses, of all that had given Uppercross its cheerful character.
A few days had made a change indeed!
If Louisa recovered, it would all be well again.
More than former happiness would be restored.
There could not be a doubt, to her mind there was none, of what would follow her recovery.
A few months hence, and the room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive self, might be filled again with all that was happy and gay, all that was glowing and bright in prosperous love, all that was most unlike Anne Elliot!
Scenes had passed in Uppercross which made it precious.
It stood the record of many sensations of pain, once severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting feeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could never be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear.
She left it all behind her, all but the recollection that such things had been.
Anne had never entered Kellynch since her quitting Lady Russell's house in September.
It had not been necessary, and the few occasions of its being possible for her to go to the Hall she had contrived to evade and escape from.
Her first return was to resume her place in the modern and elegant apartments of the Lodge, and to gladden the eyes of its mistress.
There was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell's joy in meeting her.
She knew who had been frequenting Uppercross.
When they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental change.
The subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving Kellynch, and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to smother among the Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest.
She had lately lost sight even of her father and sister and Bath.
She was actually forced to exert herself to meet Lady Russell with anything like the appearance of equal solicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim on her.
There was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse on another subject.
They must speak of the accident at Lyme.
Anne was conscious of not doing it so well as Lady Russell.
She could not speak the name, and look straight forward to Lady Russell's eye, till she had adopted the expedient of telling her briefly what she thought of the attachment between him and Louisa.
When this was told, his name distressed her no longer.
The first three or four days passed most quietly, with no circumstance to mark them excepting the receipt of a note or two from Lyme, which found their way to Anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather improving account of Louisa.
At the end of that period, Lady Russell's politeness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of the past became in a decided tone, " I must call on Mrs Croft; I really must call upon her soon.
Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay a visit in that house?
It will be some trial to us both.
Anne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she said, in observing --
By remaining in the neighbourhood, I am become inured to it.
These convictions must unquestionably have their own pain, and severe was its kind; but they precluded that pain which Lady Russell would suffer in entering the house again, and returning through the well-known apartments.
In such moments Anne had no power of saying to herself, " These rooms ought to belong only to us.
Oh, how fallen in their destination!
An ancient family to be so driven away!
Strangers filling their place!
No, except when she thought of her mother, and remembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she had no sigh of that description to heave.
Mrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of fancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving her in that house, there was particular attention.
He had enquired after her, she found, particularly; had expressed his hope of Miss Elliot's not being the worse for her exertions, and had spoken of those exertions as great.
This was handsome, and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could have done.
The Admiral wound it up summarily by exclaiming --
A new sort of way this, for a young fellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress's head, is not it, Miss Elliot?
This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!
Admiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady Russell, but they delighted Anne.
His goodness of heart and simplicity of character were irresistible.
I had not recollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad.
But now, do not stand upon ceremony.
Get up and go over all the rooms in the house if you like it.
You can slip in from the shrubbery at any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that door.
But," (checking himself), " you will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler's room.
Ay, so it always is, I believe.
One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best.
And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not.
Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully.
We told you about the laundry-door, at Uppercross.
That has been a very great improvement.
The wonder was, how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it did, so long!
You will tell Sir Walter what we have done, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had.
Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made have been all very much for the better.
My wife should have the credit of them, however.
I have done very little besides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my dressing-room, which was your father's.
A very good man, and very much the gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot," (looking with serious reflection), " I should think he must be rather a dressy man for his time of life.
Such a number of looking-glasses!
there was no getting away from one's self.
So I got Sophy to lend me a hand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, with my little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I never go near.
Anne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer, and the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up the subject again, to say --
The breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only when the wind is due north and blows hard, which may not happen three times a winter.
And take it altogether, now that we have been into most of the houses hereabouts and can judge, there is not one that we like better than this.
Pray say so, with my compliments.
He will be glad to hear it.
So ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Wentworth at Kellynch Hall, or of seeing him in company with her friend.
Everything was safe enough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on the subject.
They had been all in lodgings together.
Mary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evident by her staying so long, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer.
Anne enquired after Captain Benwick, Mary's face was clouded directly.
Captain Benwick is very well, I believe, but he is a very odd young man.
I do not know what he would be at.
We asked him to come home with us for a day or two: Charles undertook to give him some shooting, and he seemed quite delighted, and, for my part, I thought it was all settled; when behold!
on Tuesday night, he made a very awkward sort of excuse; 'he never shot'and he had 'been quite misunderstood,' and he had promised this and he had promised that, and the end of it was, I found, that he did not mean to come.
I suppose he was afraid of finding it dull; but upon my word I should have thought we were lively enough at the Cottage for such a heart-broken man as Captain Benwick.
Charles laughed again and said, " Now Mary, you know very well how it really was.
It was all your doing," (turning to Anne.)
That is the fact, upon my honour, Mary knows it is.
But Mary did not give into it very graciously, whether from not considering Captain Benwick entitled by birth and situation to be in love with an Elliot, or from not wanting to believe Anne a greater attraction to Uppercross than herself, must be left to be guessed.
Anne's good-will, however, was not to be lessened by what she heard.
She boldly acknowledged herself flattered, and continued her enquiries.
he talks of you," cried Charles, " in such terms --" Mary interrupted him.
I declare, Anne, he never talks of you at all.
His head is full of some books that he is reading upon your recommendation, and he wants to talk to you about them; he has found out something or other in one of them which he thinks-oh!
I cannot pretend to remember it, but it was something very fine-I overheard him telling Henrietta all about it; and then 'Miss Elliot'was spoken of in the highest terms!
Now Mary, I declare it was so, I heard it myself, and you were in the other room.
there was no end of Miss Elliot's charms.
Miss Harville only died last June.
Such a heart is very little worth having; is it, Lady Russell?
I am sure you will agree with me.
So, I give you notice, Lady Russell.
as to being Anne's acquaintance," said Mary, " I think he is rather my acquaintance, for I have been seeing him every day this last fortnight.
He is one of the dullest young men that ever lived.
He has walked with me, sometimes, from one end of the sands to the other, without saying a word.
He is not at all a well-bred young man.
I am sure you will not like him.
I think she would be so much pleased with his mind, that she would very soon see no deficiency in his manner.
He is just Lady Russell's sort.
Give him a book, and he will read all day long.
exclaimed Mary, tauntingly.
Do you think Lady Russell would like that?
Lady Russell could not help laughing.
I have really a curiosity to see the person who can give occasion to such directly opposite notions.
I wish he may be induced to call here.
And when he does, Mary, you may depend upon hearing my opinion; but I am determined not to judge him beforehand.
Lady Russell began talking of something else.
Mary spoke with animation of their meeting with, or rather missing, Mr Elliot so extraordinarily.
His declining to be on cordial terms with the head of his family, has left a very strong impression in his disfavour with me.
This decision checked Mary's eagerness, and stopped her short in the midst of the Elliot countenance.
With regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne hazarded no enquiries, there was voluntary communication sufficient.
His spirits had been greatly recovering lately as might be expected.
As Louisa improved, he had improved, and he was now quite a different creature from what he had been the first week.
He had not seen Louisa; and was so extremely fearful of any ill consequence to her from an interview, that he did not press for it at all; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan of going away for a week or ten days, till her head was stronger.
He had talked of going down to Plymouth for a week, and wanted to persuade Captain Benwick to go with him; but, as Charles maintained to the last, Captain Benwick seemed much more disposed to ride over to Kellynch.
There can be no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne were both occasionally thinking of Captain Benwick, from this time.
Lady Russell could not hear the door-bell without feeling that it might be his herald; nor could Anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her father's grounds, or any visit of charity in the village, without wondering whether she might see him or hear of him.
Captain Benwick came not, however.
He was either less disposed for it than Charles had imagined, or he was too shy; and after giving him a week's indulgence, Lady Russell determined him to be unworthy of the interest which he had been beginning to excite.
The Musgroves came back to receive their happy boys and girls from school, bringing with them Mrs Harville's little children, to improve the noise of Uppercross, and lessen that of Lyme.
Henrietta remained with Louisa; but all the rest of the family were again in their usual quarters.
Lady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them once, when Anne could not but feel that Uppercross was already quite alive again.
Though neither Henrietta, nor Louisa, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain Wentworth were there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could be wished to the last state she had seen it in.
Immediately surrounding Mrs Musgrove were the little Harvilles, whom she was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from the Cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them.
It was a fine family-piece.
Anne, judging from her own temperament, would have deemed such a domestic hurricane a bad restorative of the nerves, which Louisa's illness must have so greatly shaken.
Louisa was now recovering apace.
Her mother could even think of her being able to join their party at home, before her brothers and sisters went to school again.
The Harvilles had promised to come with her and stay at Uppercross, whenever she returned.
Captain Wentworth was gone, for the present, to see his brother in Shropshire.
Everybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters; and sounds are quite innoxious, or most distressing, by their sort rather than their quantity.
No, these were noises which belonged to the winter pleasures; her spirits rose under their influence; and like Mrs Musgrove, she was feeling, though not saying, that after being long in the country, nothing could be so good for her as a little quiet cheerfulness.
Anne did not share these feelings.
And looked back, with fond regret, to the bustles of Uppercross and the seclusion of Kellynch.
Elizabeth's last letter had communicated a piece of news of some interest.
He had called in Camden Place; had called a second time, a third; had been pointedly attentive.
If Elizabeth and her father did not deceive themselves, had been taking much pains to seek the acquaintance, and proclaim the value of the connection, as he had formerly taken pains to shew neglect.
This was very wonderful if it were true; and Lady Russell was in a state of very agreeable curiosity and perplexity about Mr Elliot, already recanting the sentiment she had so lately expressed to Mary, of his being " a man whom she had no wish to see.
She had a great wish to see him.
If he really sought to reconcile himself like a dutiful branch, he must be forgiven for having dismembered himself from the paternal tree.
Anne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circumstance, but she felt that she would rather see Mr Elliot again than not, which was more than she could say for many other persons in Bath.
She was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell then drove to her own lodgings, in Rivers Street.
Sir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place, a lofty dignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence; and both he and Elizabeth were settled there, much to their satisfaction.
Anne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of many months, and anxiously saying to herself, " Oh!
when shall I leave you again?
A degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome she received, did her good.
Her father and sister were glad to see her, for the sake of shewing her the house and furniture, and met her with kindness.
Her making a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was noticed as an advantage.
Mrs Clay was very pleasant, and very smiling, but her courtesies and smiles were more a matter of course.
Anne had always felt that she would pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complaisance of the others was unlooked for.
They were evidently in excellent spirits, and she was soon to listen to the causes.
They had no inclination to listen to her.
After laying out for some compliments of being deeply regretted in their old neighbourhood, which Anne could not pay, they had only a few faint enquiries to make, before the talk must be all their own.
Uppercross excited no interest, Kellynch very little: it was all Bath.
They had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath more than answered their expectations in every respect.
Their house was undoubtedly the best in Camden Place; their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages over all the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the superiority was not less in the style of the fitting-up, or the taste of the furniture.
Their acquaintance was exceedingly sought after.
Everybody was wanting to visit them.
They had drawn back from many introductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by people of whom they knew nothing.
Here were funds of enjoyment.
Could Anne wonder that her father and sister were happy?
But this was not all which they had to make them happy.
Anne had a great deal to hear of Mr Elliot.
He was not only pardoned, they were delighted with him.
They had not a fault to find in him.
He had explained away all the appearance of neglect on his own side.
It had originated in misapprehension entirely.
He had never had an idea of throwing himself off; he had feared that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and delicacy had kept him silent.
Upon the hint of having spoken disrespectfully or carelessly of the family and the family honours, he was quite indignant.
He, who had ever boasted of being an Elliot, and whose feelings, as to connection, were only too strict to suit the unfeudal tone of the present day.
He was astonished, indeed, but his character and general conduct must refute it.
He could refer Sir Walter to all who knew him; and certainly, the pains he had been taking on this, the first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the footing of a relation and heir-presumptive, was a strong proof of his opinions on the subject.
The circumstances of his marriage, too, were found to admit of much extenuation.
Colonel Wallis had known Mr Elliot long, had been well acquainted also with his wife, had perfectly understood the whole story.
She was certainly not a woman of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich, and excessively in love with his friend.
There had been the charm.
Without that attraction, not all her money would have tempted Elliot, and Sir Walter was, moreover, assured of her having been a very fine woman.
Here was a great deal to soften the business.
A very fine woman with a large fortune, in love with him!
Sir Walter seemed to admit it as complete apology; and though Elizabeth could not see the circumstance in quite so favourable a light, she allowed it be a great extenuation.
Anne listened, but without quite understanding it.
Allowances, large allowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke.
She heard it all under embellishment.
All that sounded extravagant or irrational in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin but in the language of the relators.
Still, however, she had the sensation of there being something more than immediately appeared, in Mr Elliot's wishing, after an interval of so many years, to be well received by them.
In a worldly view, he had nothing to gain by being on terms with Sir Walter; nothing to risk by a state of variance.
In all probability he was already the richer of the two, and the Kellynch estate would as surely be his hereafter as the title.
A sensible man, and he had looked like a very sensible man, why should it be an object to him?
She could only offer one solution; it was, perhaps, for Elizabeth's sake.
There might really have been a liking formerly, though convenience and accident had drawn him a different way; and now that he could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay his addresses to her.
Elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with well-bred, elegant manners, and her character might never have been penetrated by Mr Elliot, knowing her but in public, and when very young himself.
How her temper and understanding might bear the investigation of his present keener time of life was another concern and rather a fearful one.
Anne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at Lyme, but without being much attended to.
yes, perhaps, it had been Mr Elliot.
It might be him, perhaps.
They could not listen to her description of him.
They were describing him themselves; Sir Walter especially.
Mr Elliot appeared to think that he (Sir Walter) was looking exactly as he had done when they last parted;" but Sir Walter had " not been able to return the compliment entirely, which had embarrassed him.
He did not mean to complain, however.
Mr Elliot was better to look at than most men, and he had no objection to being seen with him anywhere.
Mr Elliot, and his friends in Marlborough Buildings, were talked of the whole evening.
and Mr Elliot so anxious that he should!
Sir Walter thought much of Mrs Wallis; she was said to be an excessively pretty woman, beautiful.
He hoped she might make some amends for the many very plain faces he was continually passing in the streets.
The worst of Bath was the number of its plain women.
He did not mean to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of the plain was out of all proportion.
It had been a frosty morning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a thousand could stand the test of.
But still, there certainly were a dreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath; and as for the men!
they were infinitely worse.
Such scarecrows as the streets were full of!
It was evident how little the women were used to the sight of anything tolerable, by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced.
He had never walked anywhere arm-in-arm with Colonel Wallis (who was a fine military figure, though sandy-haired) without observing that every woman's eye was upon him; every woman's eye was sure to be upon Colonel Wallis.
He was not allowed to escape, however.
His daughter and Mrs Clay united in hinting that Colonel Wallis's companion might have as good a figure as Colonel Wallis, and certainly was not sandy-haired.
said Sir Walter, in the height of his good humour.
no, that must have been quite accidental.
In general she has been in very good health and very good looks since Michaelmas.
Anne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a gown, or a cap, would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the door suspended everything.
They knew he was to dine in Lansdown Crescent.
It was possible that he might stop in his way home to ask them how they did.
They could think of no one else.
Mrs Clay decidedly thought it Mr Elliot's knock.
With all the state which a butler and foot-boy could give, Mr Elliot was ushered into the room.
It was the same, the very same man, with no difference but of dress.
He looked completely astonished, but not more astonished than pleased; his eyes brightened!
and with the most perfect alacrity he welcomed the relationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received as an acquaintance already.
He was quite as good-looking as he had appeared at Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so exactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly agreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one person's manners.
They were not the same, but they were, perhaps, equally good.
He sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much.
There could be no doubt of his being a sensible man.
Ten minutes were enough to certify that.
His tone, his expressions, his choice of subject, his knowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a sensible, discerning mind.
She gave him a short account of her party and business at Lyme.
His regret increased as he listened.
If he had but asked who the party were!
The name of Musgrove would have told him enough.
The folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled by the folly of what they have in view.
But he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne alone: he knew it; he was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at intervals that he could return to Lyme.
His enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she had been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place.
Having alluded to " an accident," he must hear the whole.
When he questioned, Sir Walter and Elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in their manner of doing it could not be unfelt.
She could only compare Mr Elliot to Lady Russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had passed, and in the degree of concern for what she must have suffered in witnessing it.
He staid an hour with them.
The elegant little clock on the mantel-piece had struck " eleven with its silver sounds," and the watchman was beginning to be heard at a distance telling the same tale, before Mr Elliot or any of them seemed to feel that he had been there long.
Anne could not have supposed it possible that her first evening in Camden Place could have passed so well!
On going down to breakfast the next morning, she found there had just been a decent pretence on the lady's side of meaning to leave them.
She could imagine Mrs Clay to have said, that " now Miss Anne was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted;" for Elizabeth was replying in a sort of whisper, " That must not be any reason, indeed.
I assure you I feel it none.
She is nothing to me, compared with you;" and she was in full time to hear her father say, " My dear madam, this must not be.
As yet, you have seen nothing of Bath.
You have been here only to be useful.
You must not run away from us now.
You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs Wallis, the beautiful Mrs Wallis.
To your fine mind, I well know the sight of beauty is a real gratification.
He spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne was not surprised to see Mrs Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth and herself.
Her countenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise of the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister.
The lady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay.
In the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be alone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he thought her " less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her complexion, greatly improved; clearer, fresher.
Had she been using any thing in particular?
he was surprised at that;" and added, " certainly you cannot do better than to continue as you are; you cannot be better than well; or I should recommend Gowland, the constant use of Gowland, during the spring months.
Mrs Clay has been using it at my recommendation, and you see what it has done for her.
You see how it has carried away her freckles.
If Elizabeth could but have heard this!
Such personal praise might have struck her, especially as it did not appear to Anne that the freckles were at all lessened.
But everything must take its chance.
The evil of a marriage would be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also to marry.
As for herself, she might always command a home with Lady Russell.
Lady Russell's composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial on this point, in her intercourse in Camden Place.
As Mr Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more indifferent, towards the others.
His manners were an immediate recommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully supporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne, almost ready to exclaim, " Can this be Mr Elliot?
and could not seriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable man.
Everything united in him; good understanding, correct opinions, knowledge of the world, and a warm heart.
He had strong feelings of family attachment and family honour, without pride or weakness; he lived with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display; he judged for himself in everything essential, without defying public opinion in any point of worldly decorum.
She was sure that he had not been happy in marriage.
Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it; but it had been no unhappiness to sour his mind, nor (she began pretty soon to suspect) to prevent his thinking of a second choice.
Her satisfaction in Mr Elliot outweighed all the plague of Mrs Clay.
Anne presumed, however, still to smile about it, and at last to mention " Elizabeth.
Lady Russell listened, and looked, and made only this cautious reply:--" Elizabeth!
very well; time will explain.
It was a reference to the future, which Anne, after a little observation, felt she must submit to.
She could determine nothing at present.
In that house Elizabeth must be first; and she was in the habit of such general observance as " Miss Elliot," that any particularity of attention seemed almost impossible.
Mr Elliot, too, it must be remembered, had not been a widower seven months.
A little delay on his side might be very excusable.
They went through the particulars of their first meeting a great many times.
He gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some earnestness.
She knew it well; and she remembered another person's look also.
They did not always think alike.
His value for rank and connexion she perceived was greater than hers.
It was not merely complaisance, it must be a liking to the cause, which made him enter warmly into her father and sister's solicitudes on a subject which she thought unworthy to excite them.
Anne had never seen her father and sister before in contact with nobility, and she must acknowledge herself disappointed.
No letter of condolence had been sent to Ireland.
The neglect had been visited on the head of the sinner; for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no letter of condolence was received at Kellynch, and, consequently, there was but too much reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered the relationship as closed.
How to have this anxious business set to rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question: and it was a question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot thought unimportant.
She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had heard her spoken of as a charming woman.
It was very desirable that the connexion should be renewed, if it could be done, without any compromise of propriety on the side of the Elliots.
Sir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a very fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his right honourable cousin.
Neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot could admire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three lines of scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess.
The toils of the business were over, the sweets began.
Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they were nothing.
There was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding.
Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of " a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody.
Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for her birth.
Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice.
Birth and good manners are essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company; on the contrary, it will do very well.
My cousin Anne shakes her head.
My dear cousin " (sitting down by her), " you have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer?
Will it not be wiser to accept the society of those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as possible?
You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for.
then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added, " I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance.
I suppose " (smiling) " I have more pride than any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them.
In London, perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say: but in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing: always acceptable as acquaintance.
But here you are in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot.
You talk of being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little different.
In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin," (he continued, speaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) " in one point, I am sure, we must feel alike.
We must feel that every addition to your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him.
While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good fortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very different description.
She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there being an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on her attention of past kindness and present suffering.
Miss Hamilton, now Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her life when it had been most valuable.
Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was said to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had known of her, till now that their governess's account brought her situation forward in a more decided but very different form.
She was a widow and poor.
Her husband had been extravagant; and at his death, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully involved.
She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and in addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe rheumatic fever, which, finally settling in her legs, had made her for the present a cripple.
She had come to Bath on that account, and was now in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost excluded from society.
Their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from Miss Elliot would give Mrs Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in going.
She mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she intended, at home.
It would excite no proper interest there.
She only consulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and was most happy to convey her as near to Mrs Smith's lodgings in Westgate Buildings, as Anne chose to be taken.
The visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest in each other more than re-kindled.
The first ten minutes had its awkwardness and its emotion.
Twelve years were gone since they had parted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the other had imagined.
Anne found in Mrs Smith the good sense and agreeable manners which she had almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be cheerful beyond her expectation.
Neither the dissipations of the past-and she had lived very much in the world-nor the restrictions of the present, neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her spirits.
In the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and Anne's astonishment increased.
She could scarcely imagine a more cheerless situation in itself than Mrs Smith's.
She had been very fond of her husband: she had buried him.
She had been used to affluence: it was gone.
She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest supportable.
Yet, in spite of all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of languor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment.
She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined that this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only.
It was the choicest gift of Heaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which, by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost every other want.
There had been a time, Mrs Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly failed.
She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her state on first reaching Bath.
She had weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her good.
It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be in good hands.
She had a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise.
She always takes the right time for applying.
Everybody's heart is open, you know, when they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to speak.
She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman.
Hers is a line for seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the world,' know nothing worth attending to.
Call it gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable: something that makes one know one's species better.
One likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly.
To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a treat.
Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied, " I can easily believe it.
Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to.
Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing!
And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting.
What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most.
A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes.
Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of.
There is so little real friendship in the world!
and unfortunately " (speaking low and tremulously) " there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late.
Anne saw the misery of such feelings.
The husband had not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved.
It was but a passing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon added in a different tone --
She is only nursing Mrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and finery.
I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis, however.
She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the high-priced things I have in hand now.
Anne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of such a person was known in Camden Place.
At last, it became necessary to speak of her.
Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one morning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple for the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that evening in Westgate Buildings.
She was not sorry for the excuse.
They were not much interested in anything relative to Anne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it understood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was disdainful, and Sir Walter severe.
said he, " and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be visiting in Westgate Buildings?
A widow Mrs Smith; and who was her husband?
One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to be met with everywhere.
And what is her attraction?
That she is old and sickly.
Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most extraordinary taste!
Everything that revolts other people, low company, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting to you.
But surely you may put off this old lady till to-morrow: she is not so near her end, I presume, but that she may hope to see another day.
She goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and for the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged.
A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings!
She left it to himself to recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity.
Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening.
Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could supply from Lady Russell.
To her, its greatest interest must be, in having been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for staying away in such a cause.
Her kind, compassionate visits to this old schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr Elliot.
He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence.
He could meet even Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations which her friend meant to create.
Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot.
She was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing.
Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.
I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there would be every possibility of your being happy together.
A most suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be a very happy one.
You are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in being more highly valued!
My dearest Anne, it would give me more delight than is often felt at my time of life!
Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings this picture excited.
For a few moments her imagination and her heart were bewitched.
The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of having the precious name of " Lady Elliot " first revived in herself; of being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist.
Lady Russell said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own operation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken for himself- she believed, in short, what Anne did not believe.
The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself brought Anne to composure again.
The charm of Kellynch and of " Lady Elliot " all faded away.
She never could accept him.
And it was not only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her judgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a case was against Mr Elliot.
Though they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied that she really knew his character.
That he was a sensible man, an agreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to judge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough.
He certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article of moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been afraid to answer for his conduct.
She distrusted the past, if not the present.
The names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the allusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not favourable of what he had been.
How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly cleansed?
Mr Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open.
There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others.
This, to Anne, was a decided imperfection.
Her early impressions were incurable.
She prized the frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others.
Warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her still.
She felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped.
Mr Elliot was too generally agreeable.
Various as were the tempers in her father's house, he pleased them all.
He endured too well, stood too well with every body.
He had spoken to her with some degree of openness of Mrs Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs Clay was about, and to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs Clay found him as agreeable as any body.
Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw nothing to excite distrust.
She could not imagine a man more exactly what he ought to be than Mr Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter feeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved Anne in Kellynch church, in the course of the following autumn.
It was the beginning of February; and Anne, having been a month in Bath, was growing very eager for news from Uppercross and Lyme.
She wanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated.
It was three weeks since she had heard at all.
The Crofts must be in Bath!
A circumstance to interest her.
They were people whom her heart turned to very naturally.
The Crofts who rent Kellynch?
What have they brought you?
those letters are convenient passports.
They secure an introduction.
I should have visited Admiral Croft, however, at any rate.
I know what is due to my tenant.
Anne could listen no longer; she could not even have told how the poor Admiral's complexion escaped; her letter engrossed her.
It had been begun several days back.
You must be a great deal too happy to care for Uppercross, which, as you well know, affords little to write about.
We have had a very dull Christmas; Mr and Mrs Musgrove have not had one dinner party all the holidays.
I do not reckon the Hayters as anybody.
The holidays, however, are over at last: I believe no children ever had such long ones.
The house was cleared yesterday, except of the little Harvilles; but you will be surprised to hear they have never gone home.
Mrs Harville must be an odd mother to part with them so long.
They are not at all nice children, in my opinion; but Mrs Musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not better, than her grandchildren.
What dreadful weather we have had!
It may not be felt in Bath, with your nice pavements; but in the country it is of some consequence.
I have not had a creature call on me since the second week in January, except Charles Hayter, who had been calling much oftener than was welcome.
Between ourselves, I think it a great pity Henrietta did not remain at Lyme as long as Louisa; it would have kept her a little out of his way.
The carriage is gone to-day, to bring Louisa and the Harvilles to-morrow.
We are not asked to dine with them, however, till the day after, Mrs Musgrove is so afraid of her being fatigued by the journey, which is not very likely, considering the care that will be taken of her; and it would be much more convenient to me to dine there to-morrow.
I am glad you find Mr Elliot so agreeable, and wish I could be acquainted with him too; but I have my usual luck: I am always out of the way when any thing desirable is going on; always the last of my family to be noticed.
What an immense time Mrs Clay has been staying with Elizabeth!
Does she never mean to go away?
But perhaps if she were to leave the room vacant, we might not be invited.
Let me know what you think of this.
I do not expect my children to be asked, you know.
I can leave them at the Great House very well, for a month or six weeks.
I have this moment heard that the Crofts are going to Bath almost immediately; they think the Admiral gouty.
Charles heard it quite by chance; they have not had the civility to give me any notice, or of offering to take anything.
I do not think they improve at all as neighbours.
We see nothing of them, and this is really an instance of gross inattention.
Charles joins me in love, and everything proper.
I dare say I shall catch it; and my sore-throats, you know, are always worse than anybody's.
So ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an envelope, containing nearly as much more.
In the first place, I had a note from Mrs Croft yesterday, offering to convey anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to me, just as it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter as long as I like.
The Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely hope Bath will do him all the good he wants.
I shall be truly glad to have them back again.
Our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant family.
I have something to communicate that will astonish you not a little.
She and the Harvilles came on Tuesday very safely, and in the evening we went to ask her how she did, when we were rather surprised not to find Captain Benwick of the party, for he had been invited as well as the Harvilles; and what do you think was the reason?
Neither more nor less than his being in love with Louisa, and not choosing to venture to Uppercross till he had had an answer from Mr Musgrove; for it was all settled between him and her before she came away, and he had written to her father by Captain Harville.
I shall be surprised at least if you ever received a hint of it, for I never did.
Mrs Musgrove protests solemnly that she knew nothing of the matter.
We are all very well pleased, however, for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain Wentworth, it is infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr Musgrove has written his consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day.
Mrs Harville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister's account; but, however, Louisa is a great favourite with both.
Indeed, Mrs Harville and I quite agree that we love her the better for having nursed her.
Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but if you remember, I never thought him attached to Louisa; I never could see anything of it.
And this is the end, you see, of Captain Benwick's being supposed to be an admirer of yours.
How Charles could take such a thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me.
I hope he will be more agreeable now.
Certainly not a great match for Louisa Musgrove, but a million times better than marrying among the Hayters.
Mary need not have feared her sister's being in any degree prepared for the news.
She had never in her life been more astonished.
Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove!
It was almost too wonderful for belief, and it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room, preserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the moment.
Happily for her, they were not many.
Sir Walter wanted to know whether the Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they were likely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss Elliot and himself to visit in; but had little curiosity beyond.
said Elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer, " And pray what brings the Crofts to Bath?
He is thought to be gouty.
Elizabeth, may we venture to present him and his wife in Laura Place?
Situated as we are with Lady Dalrymple, cousins, we ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she might not approve.
If we were not related, it would not signify; but as cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours.
We had better leave the Crofts to find their own level.
There are several odd-looking men walking about here, who, I am told, are sailors.
The Crofts will associate with them.
This was Sir Walter and Elizabeth's share of interest in the letter; when Mrs Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an enquiry after Mrs Charles Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was at liberty.
In her own room, she tried to comprehend it.
Well might Charles wonder how Captain Wentworth would feel!
Perhaps he had quitted the field, had given Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her.
She could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin to ill usage between him and his friend.
She could not endure that such a friendship as theirs should be severed unfairly.
Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove!
The high-spirited, joyous-talking Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading, Captain Benwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other.
Their minds most dissimilar!
Where could have been the attraction?
The answer soon presented itself.
It had been in situation.
That was a point which Anne had not been able to avoid suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as Mary, from the present course of events, they served only to confirm the idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself.
She did not mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her vanity, than Mary might have allowed.
She was persuaded that any tolerably pleasing young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for him would have received the same compliment.
He had an affectionate heart.
She saw no reason against their being happy.
Louisa had fine naval fervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike.
He would gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott and Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they had fallen in love over poetry.
The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned into a person of literary taste, and sentimental reflection was amusing, but she had no doubt of its being so.
The day at Lyme, the fall from the Cobb, might influence her health, her nerves, her courage, her character to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it appeared to have influenced her fate.
No, it was not regret which made Anne's heart beat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks when she thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and free.
She had some feelings which she was ashamed to investigate.
They were too much like joy, senseless joy!
She longed to see the Crofts; but when the meeting took place, it was evident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them.
The visit of ceremony was paid and returned; and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned, and Captain Benwick, too, without even half a smile.
The Crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in Gay Street, perfectly to Sir Walter's satisfaction.
He was not at all ashamed of the acquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about the Admiral, than the Admiral ever thought or talked about him.
The Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they wished for, and considered their intercourse with the Elliots as a mere matter of form, and not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure.
They brought with them their country habit of being almost always together.
He was ordered to walk to keep off the gout, and Mrs Croft seemed to go shares with him in everything, and to walk for her life to do him good.
Anne saw them wherever she went.
Lady Russell took her out in her carriage almost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never failed to see them.
Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most attractive picture of happiness to her.
He was standing by himself at a printshop window, with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation of some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was obliged to touch as well as address him before she could catch his notice.
When he did perceive and acknowledge her, however, it was done with all his usual frankness and good humour.
This is treating me like a friend.
Here I am, you see, staring at a picture.
I can never get by this shop without stopping.
But what a thing here is, by way of a boat!
Did you ever see the like?
What queer fellows your fine painters must be, to think that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless old cockleshell as that?
And yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it mightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and mountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they certainly must be.
I wonder where that boat was built!
Well," (turning away), " now, where are you bound?
Can I go anywhere for you, or with you?
Yes, yes we will have a snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go along.
There, take my arm; that's right; I do not feel comfortable if I have not a woman there.
taking a last look at the picture, as they began to be in motion.
But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I shall only say, 'How d'ye do?'
Brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife.
She, poor soul, is tied by the leg.
She has a blister on one of her heels, as large as a three-shilling piece.
If you look across the street, you will see Admiral Brand coming down and his brother.
Shabby fellows, both of them!
I am glad they are not on this side of the way.
They played me a pitiful trick once: got away with some of my best men.
I will tell you the whole story another time.
There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson.
Look, he sees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife.
the peace has come too soon for that younker.
How do you like Bath, Miss Elliot?
We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I can tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North Yarmouth.
The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same way.
When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for what he had to communicate.
As soon as they were fairly ascending Belmont, he began --
But first of all, you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk about.
That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned for.
The Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to.
Her Christian name: I always forget her Christian name.
Anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really did; but now she could safely suggest the name of " Louisa.
I wish young ladies had not such a number of fine Christian names.
I should never be out if they were all Sophys, or something of that sort.
Well, this Miss Louisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry Frederick.
He was courting her week after week.
The only wonder was, what they could be waiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear enough that they must wait till her brain was set to right.
But even then there was something odd in their way of going on.
Instead of staying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see Edward.
When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward's, and there he has been ever since.
We have seen nothing of him since November.
Even Sophy could not understand it.
But now, the matter has take the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James Benwick.
I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick.
Nay, most likely they are married already, for I do not know what they should wait for.
yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick.
He is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of.
An excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice.
I thought them particularly pleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please.
There is something about Frederick more to our taste.
It is not a mere bit of gossip.
We have it from Frederick himself.
His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross.
I fancy they are all at Uppercross.
This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore, " I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly uneasy.
It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side equally, and without violence.
I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man.
Anne looked down to hide her smile.
If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit she should have him.
But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without its being absolutely said.
I should be very sorry that such a friendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort.
But there is nothing at all of that nature in the letter.
He does not give the least fling at Benwick; does not so much as say, 'I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for wondering at it.'
No, you would not guess, from his way of writing, that he had ever thought of this Miss (what's her name?)
He very handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is nothing very unforgiving in that, I think.
Anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to convey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther.
She therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet attention, and the Admiral had it all his own way.
I think we must get him to Bath.
Sophy must write, and beg him to come to Bath.
Here are pretty girls enough, I am sure.
It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other Miss Musgrove, I find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson.
Do not you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath?
While Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne, and expressing his wish of getting Captain Wentworth to Bath, Captain Wentworth was already on his way thither.
Before Mrs Croft had written, he was arrived, and the very next time Anne walked out, she saw him.
Mr Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs Clay.
They were in Milsom Street.
He soon joined them again, successful, of course; Lady Dalrymple would be most happy to take them home, and would call for them in a few minutes.
Her ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four with any comfort.
Miss Carteret was with her mother; consequently it was not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three Camden Place ladies.
There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot.
Whoever suffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little time to settle the point of civility between the other two.
The rain was a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with Mr Elliot.
But the rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs Clay; she would hardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick!
It was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the carriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat near the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain Wentworth walking down the street.
Her start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that she was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and absurd!
For a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all confusion.
She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she found the others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr Elliot (always obliging) just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs Clay's.
She now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to see if it rained.
Why was she to suspect herself of another motive?
Captain Wentworth must be out of sight.
She left her seat, she would go; one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other half, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was.
She would see if it rained.
She was sent back, however, in a moment by the entrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and ladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a little below Milsom Street.
He was more obviously struck and confused by the sight of her than she had ever observed before; he looked quite red.
For the first time, since their renewed acquaintance, she felt that she was betraying the least sensibility of the two.
She had the advantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments.
All the overpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise were over with her.
Still, however, she had enough to feel!
It was agitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery.
He spoke to her, and then turned away.
The character of his manner was embarrassment.
She could not have called it either cold or friendly, or anything so certainly as embarrassed.
After a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again.
Mutual enquiries on common subjects passed: neither of them, probably, much the wiser for what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible of his being less at ease than formerly.
They had by dint of being so very much together, got to speak to each other with a considerable portion of apparent indifference and calmness; but he could not do it now.
Time had changed him, or Louisa had changed him.
There was consciousness of some sort or other.
It did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that Elizabeth would not know him.
Lady Dalrymple's carriage, for which Miss Elliot was growing very impatient, now drew up; the servant came in to announce it.
It was beginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a bustle, and a talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop understand that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot.
At last Miss Elliot and her friend, unattended but by the servant, (for there was no cousin returned), were walking off; and Captain Wentworth, watching them, turned again to Anne, and by manner, rather than words, was offering his services to her.
The carriage would not accommodate so many.
I walk: I prefer walking.
very little, Nothing that I regard.
She was very much obliged to him, but declined it all, repeating her conviction, that the rain would come to nothing at present, and adding, " I am only waiting for Mr Elliot.
He will be here in a moment, I am sure.
She had hardly spoken the words when Mr Elliot walked in.
Captain Wentworth recollected him perfectly.
There was no difference between him and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as she passed, except in the air and look and manner of the privileged relation and friend.
being all that she had time for, as she passed away.
As soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain Wentworth's party began talking of them.
no, that is clear enough.
One can guess what will happen there.
He is always with them; half lives in the family, I believe.
What a very good-looking man!
It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire her more than her sister.
But the men are all wild after Miss Elliot.
Anne is too delicate for them.
Anne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would have walked by her side all the way to Camden Place, without saying a word.
But just now she could think only of Captain Wentworth.
She could not understand his present feelings, whether he were really suffering much from disappointment or not; and till that point were settled, she could not be quite herself.
She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas!
she must confess to herself that she was not wise yet.
Another circumstance very essential for her to know, was how long he meant to be in Bath; he had not mentioned it, or she could not recollect it.
He might be only passing through.
But it was more probable that he should be come to stay.
In that case, so liable as every body was to meet every body in Bath, Lady Russell would in all likelihood see him somewhere.
She had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that Louisa Musgrove was to marry Captain Benwick.
It had cost her something to encounter Lady Russell's surprise; and now, if she were by any chance to be thrown into company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of the matter might add another shade of prejudice against him.
There were many other men about him, many groups walking the same way, but there was no mistaking him.
She looked instinctively at Lady Russell; but not from any mad idea of her recognising him so soon as she did herself.
No, it was not to be supposed that Lady Russell would perceive him till they were nearly opposite.
At last, Lady Russell drew back her head.
Anne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her friend or herself.
The part which provoked her most, was that in all this waste of foresight and caution, she should have lost the right moment for seeing whether he saw them.
A day or two passed without producing anything.
It was a concert for the benefit of a person patronised by Lady Dalrymple.
Of course they must attend.
It was really expected to be a good one, and Captain Wentworth was very fond of music.
If she could only have a few minutes conversation with him again, she fancied she should be satisfied; and as to the power of addressing him, she felt all over courage if the opportunity occurred.
Elizabeth had turned from him, Lady Russell overlooked him; her nerves were strengthened by these circumstances; she felt that she owed him attention.
She had once partly promised Mrs Smith to spend the evening with her; but in a short hurried call she excused herself and put it off, with the more decided promise of a longer visit on the morrow.
Mrs Smith gave a most good-humoured acquiescence.
Anne was startled and confused; but after standing in a moment's suspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away.
Sir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs Clay, were the earliest of all their party at the rooms in the evening; and as Lady Dalrymple must be waited for, they took their station by one of the fires in the Octagon Room.
But hardly were they so settled, when the door opened again, and Captain Wentworth walked in alone.
Anne was the nearest to him, and making yet a little advance, she instantly spoke.
He was preparing only to bow and pass on, but her gentle " How do you do?
brought him out of the straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries in return, in spite of the formidable father and sister in the back ground.
Their being in the back ground was a support to Anne; she knew nothing of their looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed right to be done.
While they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth caught her ear.
This, though late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was yet better than nothing, and her spirits improved.
I am afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering you at the time.
She assured him that she had not.
and he passed his hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful, but in a moment, half smiling again, added, " The day has produced some effects however; has had some consequences which must be considered as the very reverse of frightful.
When you had the presence of mind to suggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon, you could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most concerned in her recovery.
But it appears-I should hope it would be a very happy match.
There are on both sides good principles and good temper.
With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over every circumstance in favour of it.
They have no difficulties to contend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays.
The Musgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly, only anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter's comfort.
All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness; more than perhaps --
A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him some taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne's cheeks and fixing her eyes on the ground.
After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded thus --
I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding, but Benwick is something more.
He is a clever man, a reading man; and I confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to her with some surprise.
Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it would have been another thing.
But I have no reason to suppose it so.
It seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me.
A man like him, in his situation!
with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken!
Fanny Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was indeed attachment.
A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman.
He ought not; he does not.
It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet, after a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the smallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say --
I could not leave it till Louisa's doing well was quite ascertained.
I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to be soon at peace.
It had been my doing, solely mine.
She would not have been obstinate if I had not been weak.
The country round Lyme is very fine.
I walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the more I found to admire.
I should not have supposed that you could have found anything in Lyme to inspire such a feeling.
The horror and distress you were involved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits!
I should have thought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust.
One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at Lyme.
We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment.
So much novelty and beauty!
I have travelled so little, that every fresh place would be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in short " (with a faint blush at some recollections), " altogether my impressions of the place are very agreeable.
As she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party appeared for whom they were waiting.
Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr Elliot and Colonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant, advanced into the room.
The others joined them, and it was a group in which Anne found herself also necessarily included.
She was divided from Captain Wentworth.
Their interesting, almost too interesting conversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance compared with the happiness which brought it on!
She had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his feelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with exquisite, though agitated sensations.
She was in good humour with all.
She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and kind to all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself.
The delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back from the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that he was gone.
She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert Room.
He was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment's regret.
But " they should meet again.
He would look for her, he would find her out before the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well to be asunder.
She was in need of a little interval for recollection.
Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in.
Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room.
Her happiness was from within.
Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed; but she knew nothing about it.
She was thinking only of the last half hour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range over it.
His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his manner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light.
Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past.
She could not contemplate the change as implying less.
These were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she passed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even trying to discern him.
The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne was among those on the foremost, and Mr Elliot had manoeuvred so well, with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by her.
Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object of Colonel Wallis's gallantry, was quite contented.
Towards the close of it, in the interval succeeding an Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr Elliot.
They had a concert bill between them.
I am a very poor Italian scholar.
I see you know nothing of the matter.
You have only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these inverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant English.
You need not say anything more of your ignorance.
this is too much flattery.
I forget what we are to have next," turning to the bill.
You can have been acquainted with it only since I came to Bath, excepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my own family.
I had heard you described by those who knew you intimately.
I have been acquainted with you by character many years.
Your person, your disposition, accomplishments, manner; they were all present to me.
Mr Elliot was not disappointed in the interest he hoped to raise.
No one can withstand the charm of such a mystery.
To have been described long ago to a recent acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible; and Anne was all curiosity.
She wondered, and questioned him eagerly; but in vain.
He delighted in being asked, but he would not tell.
He would mention no names now; but such, he could assure her, had been the fact.
He had many years ago received such a description of Miss Anne Elliot as had inspired him with the highest idea of her merit, and excited the warmest curiosity to know her.
Anne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with partiality of her many years ago as the Mr Wentworth of Monkford, Captain Wentworth's brother.
He might have been in Mr Elliot's company, but she had not courage to ask the question.
Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy; and, if I dared, I would breathe my wishes that the name might never change.
Such, she believed, were his words; but scarcely had she received their sound, than her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind her, which rendered every thing else trivial.
Her father and Lady Dalrymple were speaking.
Wentworth; Captain Wentworth of the navy.
His sister married my tenant in Somersetshire, the Croft, who rents Kellynch.
Before Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne's eyes had caught the right direction, and distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a cluster of men at a little distance.
As her eyes fell on him, his seemed to be withdrawn from her.
It seemed as if she had been one moment too late; and as long as she dared observe, he did not look again: but the performance was recommencing, and she was forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra and look straight forward.
When she could give another glance, he had moved away.
He could not have come nearer to her if he would; she was so surrounded and shut in: but she would rather have caught his eye.
Mr Elliot's speech, too, distressed her.
She had no longer any inclination to talk to him.
She wished him not so near her.
Now she hoped for some beneficial change; and, after a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did decide on going in quest of tea.
Anne was one of the few who did not choose to move.
She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell; but she had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr Elliot; and she did not mean, whatever she might feel on Lady Russell's account, to shrink from conversation with Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity.
She was persuaded by Lady Russell's countenance that she had seen him.
Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a distance, but he never came.
The anxious interval wore away unproductively.
The others returned, the room filled again, benches were reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of penance was to be sat out, another hour of music was to give delight or the gapes, as real or affected taste for it prevailed.
To Anne, it chiefly wore the prospect of an hour of agitation.
She could not quit that room in peace without seeing Captain Wentworth once more, without the interchange of one friendly look.
In re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of which was favourable for her.
Such was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when Captain Wentworth was again in sight.
He saw her too; yet he looked grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow degrees came at last near enough to speak to her.
She felt that something must be the matter.
The change was indubitable.
The difference between his present air and what it had been in the Octagon Room was strikingly great.
She thought of her father, of Lady Russell.
Could there have been any unpleasant glances?
He began by speaking of the concert gravely, more like the Captain Wentworth of Uppercross; owned himself disappointed, had expected singing; and in short, must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over.
Anne replied, and spoke in defence of the performance so well, and yet in allowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his countenance improved, and he replied again with almost a smile.
They talked for a few minutes more; the improvement held; he even looked down towards the bench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying; when at that moment a touch on her shoulder obliged Anne to turn round.
He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to explain Italian again.
Miss Carteret was very anxious to have a general idea of what was next to be sung.
Anne could not refuse; but never had she sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit.
A few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and when her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done before, she found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved yet hurried sort of farewell.
said Anne, suddenly struck by an idea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging.
he replied impressively, " there is nothing worth my staying for;" and he was gone directly.
It was the only intelligible motive.
Captain Wentworth jealous of her affection!
Could she have believed it a week ago; three hours ago!
For a moment the gratification was exquisite.
there were very different thoughts to succeed.
How was such jealousy to be quieted?
How was the truth to reach him?
How, in all the peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever learn of her real sentiments?
It was misery to think of Mr Elliot's attentions.
Their evil was incalculable.
Anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to Mrs Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when Mr Elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid Mr Elliot was almost a first object.
She felt a great deal of good-will towards him.
In spite of the mischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps compassion.
She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary circumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he seemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own sentiments, by his early prepossession.
It was altogether very extraordinary; flattering, but painful.
There was much to regret.
How she might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case, was not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the conclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be his for ever.
Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from other men, than their final separation.
Prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could never have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting with from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings.
It was almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way.
She was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this morning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have expected her, though it had been an appointment.
An account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne's recollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her features and make her rejoice to talk of it.
Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well know by name to Mrs Smith.
They never miss a concert.
and the two new beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them.
I do not think they were.
I need not ask after her.
She never misses, I know; and you must have seen her.
She must have been in your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course.
It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect.
But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little.
you saw enough for your own amusement.
There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had.
You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond.
You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening.
I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to.
In the intervals of the concert it was conversation.
Anne half smiled and said, " Do you see that in my eye?
Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together.
A blush overspread Anne's cheeks.
It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time.
Anne heard nothing of this.
She was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her.
After another short silence --
Does he know that I am in Bath?
repeated Anne, looking up surprised.
A moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under.
She caught it instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more composedly, " Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?
It is a great while since we met.
You never mentioned it before.
Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you.
I want you to talk about me to Mr Elliot.
I want your interest with him.
He can be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done.
I am sure you have, somehow or other, imbibed such a notion.
You must consider me only as Mr Elliot's relation.
If in that light there is anything which you suppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not hesitate to employ me.
Mrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said --
I ought to have waited for official information, But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak.
To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot's good fortune.
I assure you that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week.
I am not going to marry Mr Elliot.
I should like to know why you imagine I am?
Mrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head, and exclaimed --
How I do wish I knew what you were at!
I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs.
Till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have anybody.
It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused, till he offers.
But why should you be cruel?
Let me plead for my-present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend.
Where can you look for a more suitable match?
Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man?
Let me recommend Mr Elliot.
I am sure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can know him better than Colonel Wallis?
He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one.
if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, " Mr Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him.
Do not forget me when you are married, that's all.
Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps.
Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same.
Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me.
Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy.
Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman.
Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been.
You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character.
He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin.
He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions.
I consider him with great respect.
I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise.
But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon.
Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me?
Surely this must be calm enough.
And, upon my word, he is nothing to me.
Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him.
I assure you I shall not.
I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that --
She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient.
Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else.
But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago.
Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid?
I observed no one in particular.
She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot.
She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority.
She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history.
Shall I mention to him your being in Bath?
Shall I take any message?
In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now.
No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with.
Then do tell me what he was at that time of life.
I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man.
Was he at all such as he appears now?
They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful.
I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you.
There were many things to be taken into the account.
One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief.
Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath.
However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character.
Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen.
You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him.
Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced.
Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character.
He has no feeling for others.
Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction.
He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion.
he is black at heart, hollow and black!
Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added,
You must allow for an injured, angry woman.
But I will try to command myself.
I will only tell you what I have found him.
He was the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as good as himself.
The intimacy had been formed before our marriage.
I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became excessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion of him.
At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but Mr Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable than most others, and we were almost always together.
We were principally in town, living in very good style.
He was then the inferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in the Temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman.
He had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he was always welcome; he was like a brother.
My poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his last farthing with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I know that he often assisted him.
It must have been about the same time that he became known to my father and sister.
I never knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something in his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and afterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could quite reconcile with present times.
It seemed to announce a different sort of man.
I know he was invited and encouraged, and I know he did not choose to go.
I can satisfy you, perhaps, on points which you would little expect; and as to his marriage, I knew all about it at the time.
I have always understood they were not a happy couple.
But I should like to know why, at that time of his life, he should slight my father's acquaintance as he did.
My father was certainly disposed to take very kind and proper notice of him.
Why did Mr Elliot draw back?
He was determined to make it by marriage.
That was his motive for drawing back, I can assure you.
He told me the whole story.
He had no concealments with me.
It was curious, that having just left you behind me in Bath, my first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be your cousin; and that, through him, I should be continually hearing of your father and sister.
He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought very affectionately of the other.
I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot, and vouch for your being a very different creature from --
She checked herself just in time.
I found he had been used to hear of me.
I could not comprehend how.
What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned!
But I beg your pardon; I have interrupted you.
Mr Elliot married then completely for money?
The circumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his character.
Mrs Smith hesitated a little here.
those things are too common.
When one lives in the world, a man or woman's marrying for money is too common to strike one as it ought.
I was very young, and associated only with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any strict rules of conduct.
I think differently now; time and sickness and sorrow have given me other notions; but at that period I must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr Elliot was doing.
Money, money, was all that he wanted.
Her father was a grazier, her grandfather had been a butcher, but that was all nothing.
She was a fine woman, had had a decent education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance into Mr Elliot's company, and fell in love with him; and not a difficulty or a scruple was there on his side, with respect to her birth.
All his caution was spent in being secured of the real amount of her fortune, before he committed himself.
Depend upon it, whatever esteem Mr Elliot may have for his own situation in life now, as a young man he had not the smallest value for it.
His chance for the Kellynch estate was something, but all the honour of the family he held as cheap as dirt.
I have often heard him declare, that if baronetcies were saleable, anybody should have his for fifty pounds, arms and motto, name and livery included; but I will not pretend to repeat half that I used to hear him say on that subject.
It would not be fair; and yet you ought to have proof, for what is all this but assertion, and you shall have proof.
This is all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to hear and believe.
I am more curious to know why he should be so different now.
Anne, seeing her friend to be earnestly bent on it, did as she was desired.
The box was brought and placed before her, and Mrs Smith, sighing over it as she unlocked it, said --
The letter I am looking for was one written by Mr Elliot to him before our marriage, and happened to be saved; why, one can hardly imagine.
Here it is; I would not burn it, because being even then very little satisfied with Mr Elliot, I was determined to preserve every document of former intimacy.
I have now another motive for being glad that I can produce it.
This was the letter, directed to " Charles Smith, Esq.
Tunbridge Wells," and dated from London, as far back as July, 1803: --
Your kindness almost overpowers me.
I wish nature had made such hearts as yours more common, but I have lived three-and-twenty years in the world, and have seen none like it.
At present, believe me, I have no need of your services, being in cash again.
Give me joy: I have got rid of Sir Walter and Miss.
They are gone back to Kellynch, and almost made me swear to visit them this summer; but my first visit to Kellynch will be with a surveyor, to tell me how to bring it with best advantage to the hammer.
The baronet, nevertheless, is not unlikely to marry again; he is quite fool enough.
If he does, however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent equivalent for the reversion.
He is worse than last year.
The name of Walter I can drop, thank God!
and I desire you will never insult me with my second W. again, meaning, for the rest of my life, to be only yours truly- Wm.
Such a letter could not be read without putting Anne in a glow; and Mrs Smith, observing the high colour in her face, said --
Though I have forgot the exact terms, I have a perfect impression of the general meaning.
But it shows you the man.
Mark his professions to my poor husband.
Can any thing be stronger?
Anne could not immediately get over the shock and mortification of finding such words applied to her father.
This is full proof undoubtedly; proof of every thing you were saying.
But why be acquainted with us now?
I have shewn you Mr Elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and I will shew him as he is now.
I cannot produce written proof again, but I can give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is now wanting, and what he is now doing.
He truly wants to marry you.
His present attentions to your family are very sincere: quite from the heart.
I will give you my authority: his friend Colonel Wallis.
you are acquainted with him?
It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it takes a bend or two, but nothing of consequence.
The stream is as good as at first; the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily moved away.
She in the overflowing spirits of her recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse knowing my acquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me.
On Monday evening, my good friend Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of Marlborough Buildings.
When I talked of a whole history, therefore, you see I was not romancing so much as you supposed.
Mr Elliot's having any views on me will not in the least account for the efforts he made towards a reconciliation with my father.
That was all prior to my coming to Bath.
I found them on the most friendly terms when I arrived.
Facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so many, to be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can hardly have much truth left.
You will soon be able to judge of the general credit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself immediately contradict or confirm.
Nobody supposes that you were his first inducement.
He had seen you indeed, before he came to Bath, and admired you, but without knowing it to be you.
So says my historian, at least.
Did he see you last summer or autumn, 'somewhere down in the west,' to use her own words, without knowing it to be you?
I happened to be at Lyme.
He saw you then at Lyme, and liked you so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet with you again in Camden Place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from that moment, I have no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there.
But there was another, and an earlier, which I will now explain.
If there is anything in my story which you know to be either false or improbable, stop me.
Here Mrs Smith paused a moment; but Anne had not a word to say, and she continued --
Now you are to understand, that time had worked a very material change in Mr Elliot's opinions as to the value of a baronetcy.
Upon all points of blood and connexion he is a completely altered man.
Having long had as much money as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has been gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is heir to.
I thought it coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it is now a confirmed feeling.
He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir William.
This was agreed upon between the two friends as the only thing to be done; and Colonel Wallis was to assist in every way that he could.
He was to be introduced, and Mrs Wallis was to be introduced, and everybody was to be introduced.
Mr Elliot came back accordingly; and on application was forgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it was his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added another motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay.
He omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at all hours; but I need not be particular on this subject.
You can imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may recollect what you have seen him do.
There is always something offensive in the details of cunning.
The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me.
I know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr Elliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never been satisfied.
I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared.
I should like to know his present opinion, as to the probability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers the danger to be lessening or not.
But since he must be absent some time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her present influence.
Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when you and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay.
A scheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it.
And, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match.
She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?
My line of conduct will be more direct.
Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness.
But Mr Elliot was not done with.
She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr Elliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr Elliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune.
From his wife's account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him, led by him, and probably despised by him.
The husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of it.
They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the friendship of their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot's had better not be tried; but it was not till his death that the wretched state of his affairs was fully known.
It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and inhumanity; and Anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime could have been worse.
She had a great deal to listen to; all the particulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon distress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were dwelt on now with a natural indulgence.
Anne could perfectly comprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to wonder at the composure of her friend's usual state of mind.
There was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of particular irritation.
But there was nobody to stir in it.
Mr Elliot would do nothing, and she could do nothing herself, equally disabled from personal exertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by her want of money.
She had no natural connexions to assist her even with their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance of the law.
This was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened means.
To feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little trouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be even weakening her claims, was hard to bear.
It was on this point that she had hoped to engage Anne's good offices with Mr Elliot.
After listening to this full description of Mr Elliot, Anne could not but express some surprise at Mrs Smith's having spoken of him so favourably in the beginning of their conversation.
I considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have made the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he had been your husband.
My heart bled for you, as I talked of happiness; and yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a woman as you, it was not absolutely hopeless.
He was very unkind to his first wife.
They were wretched together.
But she was too ignorant and giddy for respect, and he had never loved her.
I was willing to hope that you must fare better.
Anne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having been induced to marry him, as made her shudder at the idea of the misery which must have followed.
It was just possible that she might have been persuaded by Lady Russell!
And under such a supposition, which would have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too late?
Anne went home to think over all that she had heard.
In one point, her feelings were relieved by this knowledge of Mr Elliot.
There was no longer anything of tenderness due to him.
He stood as opposed to Captain Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness; and the evil of his attentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have done, was considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed.
Pity for him was all over.
But this was the only point of relief.
In every other respect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw more to distrust and to apprehend.
She was concerned for the disappointment and pain Lady Russell would be feeling; for the mortifications which must be hanging over her father and sister, and had all the distress of foreseeing many evils, without knowing how to avert any one of them.
She was most thankful for her own knowledge of him.
She had never considered herself as entitled to reward for not slighting an old friend like Mrs Smith, but here was a reward indeed springing from it!
Mrs Smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done.
Could the knowledge have been extended through her family?
But this was a vain idea.
She found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped seeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning visit; but hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, when she heard that he was coming again in the evening.
I never saw anybody in my life spell harder for an invitation.
I was really in pain for him; for your hard-hearted sister, Miss Anne, seems bent on cruelty.
cried Elizabeth, " I have been rather too much used to the game to be soon overcome by a gentleman's hints.
However, when I found how excessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this morning, I gave way immediately, for I would never really omit an opportunity of bring him and Sir Walter together.
They appear to so much advantage in company with each other.
Each behaving so pleasantly.
Mr Elliot looking up with so much respect.
cried Mrs Clay, not daring, however, to turn her eyes towards Anne.
Dear Miss Elliot, may I not say father and son?
I lay no embargo on any body's words.
If you will have such ideas!
But, upon my word, I am scarcely sensible of his attentions being beyond those of other men.
exclaimed Mrs Clay, lifting her hands and eyes, and sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence.
I did invite him, you know.
I sent him away with smiles.
When I found he was really going to his friends at Thornberry Park for the whole day to-morrow, I had compassion on him.
Anne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such pleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of the very person whose presence must really be interfering with her prime object.
It was impossible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight of Mr Elliot; and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look, and appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting herself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have done otherwise.
To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot enter the room; and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her.
She had been used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but now she saw insincerity in everything.
His attentive deference to her father, contrasted with his former language, was odious; and when she thought of his cruel conduct towards Mrs Smith, she could hardly bear the sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his artificial good sentiments.
She meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a remonstrance on his side.
She was accordingly more guarded, and more cool, than she had been the night before.
He little surmised that it was a subject acting now exactly against his interest, bringing immediately to her thoughts all those parts of his conduct which were least excusable.
She had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of Bath the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the greater part of two days.
He was invited again to Camden Place the very evening of his return; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his absence was certain.
It was bad enough that a Mrs Clay should be always before her; but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to their party, seemed the destruction of everything like peace and comfort.
It was so humiliating to reflect on the constant deception practised on her father and Elizabeth; to consider the various sources of mortification preparing for them!
Mrs Clay's selfishness was not so complicate nor so revolting as his; and Anne would have compounded for the marriage at once, with all its evils, to be clear of Mr Elliot's subtleties in endeavouring to prevent it.
She saw Mrs Clay fairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning in Rivers Street.
you may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and pretend I have read it through.
I really cannot be plaguing myself for ever with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out.
Lady Russell quite bores one with her new publications.
You need not tell her so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night.
I used to think she had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the concert.
Something so formal and arrange in her air!
And you may say, that I mean to call upon her soon.
Make a civil message; but I shall only leave my card.
Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of life, who make themselves up so little.
If she would only wear rouge she would not be afraid of being seen; but last time I called, I observed the blinds were let down immediately.
While her father spoke, there was a knock at the door.
Anne, remembering the preconcerted visits, at all hours, of Mr Elliot, would have expected him, but for his known engagement seven miles off.
After the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of approach were heard, and " Mr and Mrs Charles Musgrove " were ushered into the room.
They were come to Bath for a few days with Mrs Musgrove, and were at the White Hart.
She then found that it consisted of Mrs Musgrove, Henrietta, and Captain Harville, beside their two selves.
He gave her a very plain, intelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great deal of most characteristic proceeding.
The scheme had received its first impulse by Captain Harville's wanting to come to Bath on business.
But then, it had been taken up by his father and mother.
They had arrived late the night before.
Mrs Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with Mr Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross.
Anne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough for Henrietta's wedding-clothes to be talked of.
In the centre of some of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great proprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two of the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special recommendation.
Not that he will value it as he ought," he observed, " Charles is too cool about sporting.
I hope your father and mother are quite happy with regard to both.
My father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were richer, but he has no other fault to find.
Money, you know, coming down with money-two daughters at once-it cannot be a very agreeable operation, and it streightens him as to many things.
However, I do not mean to say they have not a right to it.
It is very fit they should have daughters'shares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind, liberal father to me.
Mary does not above half like Henrietta's match.
But she does not do him justice, nor think enough about Winthrop.
I cannot make her attend to the value of the property.
It is a very fair match, as times go; and I have liked Charles Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off now.
They do everything to confer happiness, I am sure.
What a blessing to young people to be in such hands!
Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those ambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery, both in young and old.
I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered now?
He answered rather hesitatingly, " Yes, I believe I do; very much recovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no laughing or dancing; it is quite different.
If one happens only to shut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young dab-chick in the water; and Benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses, or whispering to her, all day long.
Anne could not help laughing.
Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am so illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and pleasures as myself.
I have a great value for Benwick; and when one can but get him to talk, he has plenty to say.
His reading has done him no harm, for he has fought as well as read.
I got more acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before.
We had a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father's great barns; and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better ever since.
She would certainly have risen to their blessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs.
The visit passed off altogether in high good humour.
She had no demands on her father or sister, and her consequence was just enough increased by their handsome drawing-rooms.
Elizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal.
She felt that Mrs Musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but she could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of servants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been always so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch.
It was a struggle between propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better, and then Elizabeth was happy again.
I am sure she would rather not come; she cannot feel easy with us.
I will ask them all for an evening; that will be much better; that will be a novelty and a treat.
They have not seen two such drawing rooms before.
They will be delighted to come to-morrow evening.
It shall be a regular party, small, but most elegant.
And this satisfied Elizabeth: and when the invitation was given to the two present, and promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied.
She was particularly asked to meet Mr Elliot, and be introduced to Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to come; and she could not have received a more gratifying attention.
Miss Elliot was to have the honour of calling on Mrs Musgrove in the course of the morning; and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go and see her and Henrietta directly.
Her plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present.
They found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and Anne had the kindest welcome from each.
Henrietta was exactly in that state of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made her full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before at all; and Mrs Musgrove's real affection had been won by her usefulness when they were in distress.
It was a heartiness, and a warmth, and a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad want of such blessings at home.
A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected.
A large party in an hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene.
The appearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the moment.
It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together again.
Their last meeting had been most important in opening his feelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had hastened him away from the Concert Room, still governed.
He did not seem to want to be near enough for conversation.
She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried to dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:" Surely, if there be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand each other ere long.
We are not boy and girl, to be captiously irritable, misled by every moment's inadvertence, and wantonly playing with our own happiness.
And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt as if their being in company with each other, under their present circumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and misconstructions of the most mischievous kind.
I saw them turn the corner from Bath Street just now.
They seemed deep in talk.
He was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till to-morrow.
As she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the consciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret that she had said so much, simple as it was.
Her distress returned, however, on perceiving smiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady visitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret.
It was evident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause succeeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther.
You will be too late if you do not make haste.
They are parting; they are shaking hands.
Not know Mr Elliot, indeed!
You seem to have forgot all about Lyme.
To pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, Anne did move quietly to the window.
He has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all, or I may be mistaken, I might not attend;" and walked back to her chair, recomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself well.
The visitors took their leave; and Charles, having civilly seen them off, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began with --
I have been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night.
I know you love a play; and there is room for us all.
I have engaged Captain Wentworth.
Anne will not be sorry to join us, I am sure.
Have not I done well, mother?
Mrs Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect readiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when Mary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming --
how can you think of such a thing?
Take a box for to-morrow night!
Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden Place to-morrow night?
and that we were most particularly asked to meet Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr Elliot, and all the principal family connexions, on purpose to be introduced to them?
How can you be so forgetful?
replied Charles, " what's an evening party?
Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he had wanted to see us.
You may do as you like, but I shall go to the play.
Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you promised to go.
I only smirked and bowed, and said the word 'happy.'
It would be unpardonable to fail.
We were asked on purpose to be introduced.
There was always such a great connexion between the Dalrymples and ourselves.
Nothing ever happened on either side that was not announced immediately.
We are quite near relations, you know; and Mr Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly to be acquainted with!
Every attention is due to Mr Elliot.
Consider, my father's heir: the future representative of the family.
If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it scandalous to go for the sake of his heir.
The careless expression was life to Anne, who saw that Captain Wentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul; and that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from Charles to herself.
Charles, you had much better go back and change the box for Tuesday.
It would be a pity to be divided, and we should be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father's; and I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play, if Miss Anne could not be with us.
Anne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so for the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying --
I have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to change it for a play, and with you.
But, it had better not be attempted, perhaps.
She had spoken it; but she trembled when it was done, conscious that her words were listened to, and daring not even to try to observe their effect.
It was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day; Charles only reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting that he would go to the play to-morrow if nobody else would.
Captain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fire-place; probably for the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a station, with less bare-faced design, by Anne.
The usual character of them has nothing for me.
You did not use to like cards; but time makes many changes.
After waiting a few moments he said, and as if it were the result of immediate feeling, " It is a period, indeed!
Eight years and a half is a period.
They were obliged to move.
Their preparations, however, were stopped short.
Alarming sounds were heard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir Walter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill.
Anne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms of the same.
The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was over, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk, to meet the heartless elegance of her father and sister.
How mortifying to feel that it was so!
Her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular.
Captain Wentworth was acknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before.
She even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once.
Elizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure.
After the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper nothings, she began to give the invitation which was to comprise all the remaining dues of the Musgroves.
It was all said very gracefully, and the cards with which she had provided herself, the " Miss Elliot at home," were laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all, and one smile and one card more decidedly for Captain Wentworth.
The truth was, that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand the importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his.
The present was that Captain Wentworth would move about well in her drawing-room.
The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter and Elizabeth arose and disappeared.
The interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation returned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not to Anne.
She could think only of the invitation she had with such astonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been received; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than gratification, of polite acknowledgement rather than acceptance.
She knew him; she saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe that he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for all the insolence of the past.
He held the card in his hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it.
whispered Mary very audibly.
You see he cannot put the card out of his hand.
Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself into a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she might neither see nor hear more to vex her.
The gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies proceeded on their own business, and they met no more while Anne belonged to them.
She was earnestly begged to return and dine, and give them all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long exerted that at present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for home, where she might be sure of being as silent as she chose.
They were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a gnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together.
She generally thought he would come, because she generally thought he ought; but it was a case which she could not so shape into any positive act of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of very opposite feelings.
She exclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature: --
Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I met with Mr Elliot in Bath Street.
I was never more astonished.
He turned back and walked with me to the Pump Yard.
He had been prevented setting off for Thornberry, but I really forget by what; for I was in a hurry, and could not much attend, and I can only answer for his being determined not to be delayed in his return.
He wanted to know how early he might be admitted to-morrow.
He was full of 'to-morrow,' and it is very evident that I have been full of it too, ever since I entered the house, and learnt the extension of your plan and all that had happened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of my head.
She had promised to be with the Musgroves from breakfast to dinner.
Her faith was plighted, and Mr Elliot's character, like the Sultaness Scheherazade's head, must live another day.
She could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather was unfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends'account, and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to attempt the walk.
When she reached the White Hart, and made her way to the proper apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time, nor the first to arrive.
She had only to submit, sit down, be outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the agitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little before the morning closed.
There was no delay, no waste of time.
She was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such happiness, instantly.
Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain Wentworth said --
Materials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly turning his back to them all, was engrossed by writing.
Mrs Musgrove was giving Mrs Croft the history of her eldest daughter's engagement, and just in that inconvenient tone of voice which was perfectly audible while it pretended to be a whisper.
Mrs Croft was attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it was very sensibly.
Anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much self-occupied to hear.
At any rate, said I, it will be better than a long engagement.
I always think that no mutual --
dear Mrs Croft," cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her speech, " there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long engagement.
It is what I always protested against for my children.
It is all very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if there is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or even in twelve; but a long engagement --
To begin without knowing that at such a time there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can.
Anne found an unexpected interest here.
Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left his seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was inviting her to join him where he stood.
He looked at her with a smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, " Come to me, I have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was, strongly enforced the invitation.
She roused herself and went to him.
The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth's table, not very near.
As she joined him, Captain Harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression which seemed its natural character.
But," (in a deep tone,) " it was not done for her.
Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him?
I little thought then-but no matter.
This was drawn at the Cape.
He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another!
It was a commission to me!
But who else was there to employ?
I hope I can allow for him.
I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another.
He undertakes it;" (looking towards Captain Wentworth,) " he is writing about it now.
And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, " Poor Fanny!
she would not have forgotten him so soon!
Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, " Do you claim that for your sex?
and she answered the question, smiling also, " Yes.
We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us.
It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit.
We cannot help ourselves.
We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us.
You are forced on exertion.
You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions.
He has not been forced upon any exertion.
The peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since.
If the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature, which has done the business for Captain Benwick.
I will not allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved.
I believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather.
Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments.
Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise.
You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with.
You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship.
Your home, country, friends, all quitted.
Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own.
It would be hard, indeed " (with a faltering voice), " if woman's feelings were to be added to all this.
I shall have done in five minutes.
I am only ready whenever you are.
I am in very good anchorage here," (smiling at Anne,) " well supplied, and want for nothing.
No hurry for a signal at all.
Well, Miss Elliot," (lowering his voice,) " as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose, upon this point.
No man and woman, would, probably.
But let me observe that all histories are against you-all stories, prose and verse.
If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy.
Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness.
But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men.
Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books.
Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story.
Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands.
I will not allow books to prove anything.
We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a point.
It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof.
If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his existence!
I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!
pressing his own with emotion.
cried Anne eagerly, " I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you.
God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures!
I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman.
No, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives.
I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as-if I may be allowed the expression-so long as you have an object.
I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you.
All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.
She could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed.
And when I think of Benwick, my tongue is tied.
Their attention was called towards the others.
Mrs Croft was taking leave.
To-night we may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party," (turning to Anne.)
Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not or would not answer fully.
I know you will not be sorry to be off.
I shall be at your service in half a minute.
Mrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which shewed impatience to be gone.
Anne knew not how to understand it.
She had the kindest " Good morning, God bless you!
from Captain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look!
He had passed out of the room without a look!
She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it was himself.
The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond expression.
The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to " Miss A. E-," was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily.
While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also addressing her!
On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her.
Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense.
Mrs Musgrove had little arrangements of her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words:
I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach.
I am half agony, half hope.
Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.
I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.
Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death.
I have loved none but you.
Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.
You alone have brought me to Bath.
For you alone, I think and plan.
Can you fail to have understood my wishes?
I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine.
I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me.
You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others.
Too good, too excellent creature!
You do us justice, indeed.
You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men.
Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.
A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.
Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from.
Half and hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity.
Every moment rather brought fresh agitation.
It was overpowering happiness.
And before she was beyond the first stage of full sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in.
The absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an immediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more.
She began not to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead indisposition and excuse herself.
They could then see that she looked very ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her for the world.
Would they only have gone away, and left her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her cure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was distracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home.
I wish Sarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself.
Charles, ring and order a chair.
But the chair would never do.
To lose the possibility of speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet, solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him) could not be borne.
Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said --
Pray be so good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party this evening.
I am afraid there had been some mistake; and I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth, that we hope to see them both.
my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word.
Captain Harville has no thought but of going.
But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry.
Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again?
You will see them both this morning, I dare say.
Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message.
But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy.
Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say.
Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity.
It could not be very lasting, however.
Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville.
Another momentary vexation occurred.
Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him.
But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent.
They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments'preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth.
He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked.
Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively.
The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided.
Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said --
Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?
Are you going near Camden Place?
Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door.
She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place.
He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance.
By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round Winthrop.
There could not be an objection.
There could be only the most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture.
There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement.
All the little variations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and today there could scarcely be an end.
She had not mistaken him.
Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding weight, the doubt, the torment.
That had begun to operate in the very hour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short suspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in everything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last four-and-twenty hours.
Of what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified.
He persisted in having loved none but her.
She had never been supplanted.
He never even believed himself to see her equal.
Thus much indeed he was obliged to acknowledge: that he had been constant unconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her, and believed it to be done.
He had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because he had been a sufferer from them.
Her character was now fixed on his mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of fortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only at Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme had he begun to understand himself.
At Lyme, he had received lessons of more than one sort.
The passing admiration of Mr Elliot had at least roused him, and the scenes on the Cobb and at Captain Harville's had fixed her superiority.
There, he had learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the darings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind.
There he had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had lost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in his way.
From that period his penance had become severe.
He had no sooner been free from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of Louisa's accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he had begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty.
That neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual attachment.
I was startled and shocked.
To a degree, I could contradict this instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others might have felt the same-her own family, nay, perhaps herself-I was no longer at my own disposal.
I was hers in honour if she wished it.
I had not thought seriously on this subject before.
I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences.
He found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that precisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at all, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him were what the Harvilles supposed.
It determined him to leave Lyme, and await her complete recovery elsewhere.
He would gladly weaken, by any fair means, whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might exist; and he went, therefore, to his brother's, meaning after a while to return to Kellynch, and act as circumstances might require.
I could have no other pleasure.
He enquired after you very particularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little suspecting that to my eye you could never alter.
Anne smiled, and let it pass.
It was too pleasing a blunder for a reproach.
He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindness of his own pride, and the blunders of his own calculations, till at once released from Louisa by the astonishing and felicitous intelligence of her engagement with Benwick.
But to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for evil, had been dreadful.
Within the first five minutes I said, 'I will be at Bath on Wednesday,' and I was.
Was it unpardonable to think it worth my while to come?
and to arrive with some degree of hope?
It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the past, as I did; and one encouragement happened to be mine.
I could never doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to a certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better pretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying, 'Was this for me?'
Their first meeting in Milsom Street afforded much to be said, but the concert still more.
That evening seemed to be made up of exquisite moments.
The moment of her stepping forward in the Octagon Room to speak to him: the moment of Mr Elliot's appearing and tearing her away, and one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or increasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy.
To consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to influence you!
Even if your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his!
Was it not enough to make the fool of me which I appeared?
How could I look on without agony?
Was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had once done-was it not all against me?
If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk.
When I yielded, I thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here.
In marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred, and all duty violated.
I could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of your character.
I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under year after year.
I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me.
I saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of misery.
I had no reason to believe her of less authority now.
The force of habit was to be added.
your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to another man would give.
I left you in this belief; and yet, I was determined to see you again.
My spirits rallied with the morning, and I felt that I had still a motive for remaining here.
At last Anne was at home again, and happier than any one in that house could have conceived.
All the surprise and suspense, and every other painful part of the morning dissipated by this conversation, she re-entered the house so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some momentary apprehensions of its being impossible to last.
An interval of meditation, serious and grateful, was the best corrective of everything dangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her room, and grew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her enjoyment.
The evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company assembled.
It was but a card party, it was but a mixture of those who had never met before, and those who met too often; a commonplace business, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne had never found an evening shorter.
Glowing and lovely in sensibility and happiness, and more generally admired than she thought about or cared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature around her.
Mr Elliot was there; she avoided, but she could pity him.
The Wallises, she had amusement in understanding them.
Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret-they would soon be innoxious cousins to her.
She cared not for Mrs Clay, and had nothing to blush for in the public manners of her father and sister.
It was in one of these short meetings, each apparently occupied in admiring a fine display of greenhouse plants, that she said --
To me, she was in the place of a parent.
Do not mistake me, however.
I am not saying that she did not err in her advice.
It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice.
But I mean, that I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done otherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement than I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my conscience.
I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in human nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a strong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman's portion.
He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her, replied, as if in cool deliberation --
But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time.
I trust to being in charity with her soon.
But I too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady?
Tell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written to you, would you have answered my letter?
Would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?
was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.
It is not that I did not think of it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I was proud, too proud to ask again.
I did not understand you.
I shut my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice.
This is a recollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than myself.
Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared.
It is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me.
I have been used to the gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I enjoyed.
I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards.
Like other great men under reverses," he added, with a smile.
I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve.
Who can be in doubt of what followed?
When any two young people take it into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to carry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort.
They might in fact, have borne down a great deal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them beyond the want of graciousness and warmth.
Sir Walter made no objection, and Elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold and unconcerned.
Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand pounds, and as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him, was no longer nobody.
Sir Walter, indeed, though he had no affection for Anne, and no vanity flattered, to make him really happy on the occasion, was very far from thinking it a bad match for her.
The only one among them, whose opposition of feeling could excite any serious anxiety was Lady Russell.
Anne knew that Lady Russell must be suffering some pain in understanding and relinquishing Mr Elliot, and be making some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do justice to Captain Wentworth.
This however was what Lady Russell had now to do.
There was nothing less for Lady Russell to do, than to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and to take up a new set of opinions and of hopes.
There is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment of character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in others can equal, and Lady Russell had been less gifted in this part of understanding than her young friend.
But she was a very good woman, and if her second object was to be sensible and well-judging, her first was to see Anne happy.
She loved Anne better than she loved her own abilities; and when the awkwardness of the beginning was over, found little hardship in attaching herself as a mother to the man who was securing the happiness of her other child.
Of all the family, Mary was probably the one most immediately gratified by the circumstance.
She had something to suffer, perhaps, when they came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of seniority, and the mistress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a future to look forward to, of powerful consolation.
Anne had no Uppercross Hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family; and if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from being made a baronet, she would not change situations with Anne.
It would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied with her situation, for a change is not very probable there.
She had soon the mortification of seeing Mr Elliot withdraw, and no one of proper condition has since presented himself to raise even the unfounded hopes which sunk with him.
The news of his cousins Anne's engagement burst on Mr Elliot most unexpectedly.
It deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his best hope of keeping Sir Walter single by the watchfulness which a son-in-law's rights would have given.
But, though discomfited and disappointed, he could still do something for his own interest and his own enjoyment.
Mrs Clay's affections had overpowered her interest, and she had sacrificed, for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming longer for Sir Walter.
It cannot be doubted that Sir Walter and Elizabeth were shocked and mortified by the loss of their companion, and the discovery of their deception in her.
They had their great cousins, to be sure, to resort to for comfort; but they must long feel that to flatter and follow others, without being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state of half enjoyment.
Anne, satisfied at a very early period of Lady Russell's meaning to love Captain Wentworth as she ought, had no other alloy to the happiness of her prospects than what arose from the consciousness of having no relations to bestow on him which a man of sense could value.
There she felt her own inferiority very keenly.
She had but two friends in the world to add to his list, Lady Russell and Mrs Smith.
To those, however, he was very well disposed to attach himself.
Lady Russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, he could now value from his heart.
While he was not obliged to say that he believed her to have been right in originally dividing them, he was ready to say almost everything else in her favour, and as for Mrs Smith, she had claims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently.
Her recent good offices by Anne had been enough in themselves, and their marriage, instead of depriving her of one friend, secured her two.
She might have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be happy.
Her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her friend Anne's was in the warmth of her heart.
Anne was tenderness itself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth's affection.
His profession was all that could ever make her friends wish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim her sunshine.
She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance.
The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.
Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance.
The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister.
In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent.
His attachment to them all increased.
By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters.
The son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age.
By his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth.
To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small.
Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-interest in it.
The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure.
He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew- but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest.
He meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.
But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth.
He survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters.
His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.
Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable.
His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them.
He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties.
Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was:he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife.
But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself- more narrow-minded and selfish.
When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece.
He then really thought himself equal to it.
The prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity- " Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome!
It would be enough to make them completely easy.
he could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience.
He thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent.
No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants.
Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it.
She had an excellent heart- her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.
Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.
She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation.
She was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but prudent.
The resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great.
Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished.
They encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction.
The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and again.
They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future.
Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert herself.
She could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.
Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.
Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child.
He really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted.
A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind.
In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself.
But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.
Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his sisters.
To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree.
She begged him to think again on the subject.
How could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large a sum?
And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount.
It was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters?
Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child.
Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself.
He could hardly suppose I should neglect them.
But as he required the promise, I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.
The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.
Something must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home.
Consider," she added, " that when the money is once parted with, it never can return.
Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever.
If, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little boy --
The time may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with.
If he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition.
What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters!
And as it is-only half blood- But you have such a generous spirit!
No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more.
As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death-a very comfortable fortune for any young woman.
They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them.
If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds.
A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan.
But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in.
my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase.
An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it.
You are not aware of what you are doing.
I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it.
Twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing.
My mother was quite sick of it.
Her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever.
It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world.
One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is NOT one's own.
To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's independence.
They think themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all.
If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely.
I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly.
It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.
It will certainly be much the best way.
A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father.
Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all.
I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did.
Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that?They will live so cheap!
Their housekeeping will be nothing at all.
They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind!
Only conceive how comfortable they will be!
I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it.
They will be much more able to give YOU something.
My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say.
I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described.
When my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can.
Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then.
When your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother.
Her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.
A valuable legacy indeed!
And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here.
A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live in.
Your father thought only of THEM.
And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to THEM.
This argument was irresistible.
But she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have approved.
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections.
She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters'sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in affluence.
For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity.
His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions.
But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration.
It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality.
It was contrary to every doctrine of her's that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address.
He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing.
He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.
His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement.
But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished-as-they hardly knew what.
They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other.
His mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day.
Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche.
But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches.
All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life.
Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising.
Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects.
She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it.
He did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.
She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister.
It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother.
It implies everything amiable.
replied her mother with a smile.
Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him.
Her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve.
No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.
said she, " Elinor will, in all probability be settled for life.
We shall miss her; but SHE will be happy.
Mamma, how shall we do without her?
We shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives.
You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother.
I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart.
But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your sister's choice?
Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly.
But yet-he is not the kind of young man-there is something wanting-his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister.
His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence.
And besides all this, I am afraid, Mamma, he has no real taste.
Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth.
It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter.
He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur.
To satisfy me, those characters must be united.
I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own.
He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both.
mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!
I felt for my sister most severely.
Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it.
I could hardly keep my seat.
To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!
I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper.
Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him.
But it would have broke MY heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love.
He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm.
It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness.
Why should you be less fortunate than your mother?
In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from her's!
replied Elinor, " why should you think so?
He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it.
Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well.
He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right.
Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste.
Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it.
Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.
Marianne hardly knew what to say.
She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible.
I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense.
I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable.
I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly.
Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.
The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent.
You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.
But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself.
He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother.
His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.
At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived.
At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so.
When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart.
Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him.
She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion.
She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her.
She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next-that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.
She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister.
Marianne here burst forth with indignation --
Ashamed of being otherwise.
Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment.
Elinor could not help laughing.
Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion-the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.
But farther than this you must not believe.
I am by no means assured of his regard for me.
There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is.
In my heart I feel little-scarcely any doubt of his preference.
But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination.
He is very far from being independent.
Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth.
But two advantages will proceed from this delay.
I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity.
if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!
Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister.
She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it.
There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising.
A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude.
It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him.
A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection.
She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement.
With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject.
She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain.
Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship.
But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil.
She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.
In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed.
It was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire.
The letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation.
He understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her.
She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry.
Her resolution was formed as she read.
The situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation.
She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent.
Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present acquaintance.
On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire.
No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it.
They heard her with surprise.
Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland.
She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire- Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, " Devonshire!
Are you, indeed, going there?
She explained the situation.
It was within four miles northward of Exeter.
A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in accommodating them.
She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater affection.
Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended.
To separate Edward and Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.
Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture.
He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable- The furniture was all sent around by water.
It chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's.
Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture.
Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession.
For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed.
HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.
Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.
Now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled.
Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment.
But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland.
In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their journey.
Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved.
said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; " when shall I cease to regret you- when learn to feel a home elsewhere- Oh!
The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant.
But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness.
It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.
After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house.
A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it.
As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles.
A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind.
On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs.
Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house.
It had not been built many years and was in good repair.
In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed- but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away.
They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.
It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation.
The situation of the house was good.
High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody.
The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows.
The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond.
The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them.
Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building.
I could wish the stairs were handsome.
But one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them.
I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly.
Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room.
In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient.
Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty.
He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him.
His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter.
Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him.
His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game.
He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.
They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes.
Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful.
Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted.
On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse.
In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the others.
An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.
Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage.
The ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of a hill.
The house was large and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and elegance.
The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter for that of his lady.
They were scarcely ever without some friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood.
Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother.
He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and these were their only resources.
Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence only half the time.
Continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife.
Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties.
But Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased.
The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at Barton.
The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected.
It was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her person.
The friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate.
They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young nor very gay.
He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again.
He had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements.
Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might imagine.
The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more.
Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather vulgar.
She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not.
Marianne was vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings's.
Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother.
Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves.
In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was invited to play.
Marianne's performance was highly applauded.
Sir John was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song lasted.
Lady Middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song which Marianne had just finished.
Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures.
He paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste.
She was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity required.
Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure.
She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world.
In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance.
She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons'dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.
She was perfectly convinced of it.
It would be an excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome.
Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.
The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both.
At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne.
Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.
Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind.
When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?
said Elinor, " do you call Colonel Brandon infirm?
I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!
and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?
I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature.
He may live twenty years longer.
But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony.
But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marrying HER.
In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable.
It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied.
In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing.
To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other.
But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders.
Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?
Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, " Mamma," said Marianne, " I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you.
I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well.
We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come.
Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay.
What else can detain him at Norland?
On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton.
Does Elinor expect him already?
what can be the meaning of it!
But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable!
How cold, how composed were their last adieus!
How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together!
In Edward's farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both.
Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room.
And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did.
Even now her self-command is invariable.
When is she dejected or melancholy?
When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?
The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves.
Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.
There were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.
But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.
The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks.
The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off together.
One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.
Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety.
A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened.
He put down his gun and ran to her assistance.
She had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand.
The gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill.
Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.
Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings.
She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated.
But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet.
Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged.
His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood.
The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.
But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise.
His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her.
Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting.
His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming.
Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded.
Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.
cried Sir John; " what, is HE in the country?
That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday.
Why, he is down here every year.
A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.
cried Marianne, indignantly.
What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?
Sir John was rather puzzled.
Was she out with him today?
But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind.
Has he a house at Allenham?
Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself.
Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care.
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 am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible.
cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, " and with elegance, with spirit?
Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue.
You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon.
I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and'setting one's cap at a man,' or'making a conquest,' are the most odious of all.
Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity.
Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied,
he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles.
Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries.
Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced.
Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure.
Marianne was still handsomer.
Her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens.
From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created.
It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk.
She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion.
They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either.
Their taste was strikingly alike.
The same books, the same passages were idolized by each-or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed.
He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.
You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance.
You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper.
But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse?
You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic.
Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask.
I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank.
I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend.
Marianne was softened in a moment.
Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer.
He came to them every day.
To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery.
She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome.
Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners.
He was exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.
His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment.
They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted.
Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable.
Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong.
Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them.
Their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility.
She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty?
and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent.
She liked him-in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest.
His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper.
Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion.
Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.
He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him.
Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of any body else?
If their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust.
Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty.
He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind.
I have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature.
But why should you dislike him?
I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year.
That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression.
I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart.
You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will.
You shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful.
I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare.
If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it.
And in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever.
When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution.
The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.
Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment.
She only wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.
Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration of their opinions.
When he was present she had no eyes for any one else.
Every thing he did, was right.
Every thing he said, was clever.
If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand.
If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else.
Such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.
Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them.
To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind.
This was the season of happiness to Marianne.
Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home.
Elinor's happiness was not so great.
Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure.
They afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever.
Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse.
Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.
Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.
Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired.
She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before.
In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.
Willoughby was out of the question.
Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing.
Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.
Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.
This suspicion was given by some words which accidently dropped from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others were dancing.
His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint smile, " Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments.
But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not.
A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself.
Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage.
After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying-
or is it equally criminal in every body?
Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?
I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's being pardonable.
The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips.
As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard.
Elinor attempted no more.
But Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little.
The whole story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.
As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both.
Marianne told her, with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman.
You shall share its use with me.
Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these downs.
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to them.
As to an additional servant, the expense would be a trifle; Mamma she was sure would never object to it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient.
Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately known to her.
I have not known him long indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the world, except yourself and mama.
It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy- it is disposition alone.
Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.
I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from Willoughby.
Of John I know very little, though we have lived together for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more.
She knew her sister's temper.
Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her the more to her own opinion.
She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present.
The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible.
His concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice-" But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now.
I shall keep it only till you can claim it.
When you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you.
From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident.
Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this matter in a still clearer light.
she cried, " I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne.
I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon.
I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.
It may be only the hair of some great uncle of HIS.
I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off.
For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.
Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister.
This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
But the effort was painful.
She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret,
This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more.
pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings.
But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too.
He is the curate of the parish I dare say.
He is of no profession at all.
The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them.
Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground.
But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.
The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years.
They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.
To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight- and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.
Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected.
She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all.
By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast.
The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared.
They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.
While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in.
Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon- he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.
In about five minutes he returned.
I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse.
It came from town, and is merely a letter of business.
Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it.
said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.
said he, colouring a little.
What a blow upon them all was this!
You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all.
But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!
Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, " There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure.
He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it.
I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing.
But, however, I hope you will think better of it.
Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell.
Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.
But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all.
he must and shall come back," cried Sir John.
I suppose it is something he is ashamed of.
Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.
But you had better change your mind.
He then took leave of the whole party.
To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.
The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.
do not you know who Miss Williams is?
I am sure you must have heard of her before.
She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a very near relation.
We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies.
Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, " She is his natural daughter.
I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune.
The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it.
He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest.
They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs.
It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely merry all day long.
Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.
Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.
Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, " I have found you out in spite of all your tricks.
I know where you spent the morning.
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, " Where, pray?
It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago.
Marianne turned away in great confusion.
Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it; and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true.
Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it.
Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?
I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life.
I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation.
I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house.
They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and --
It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.
On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired.
I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture- but if it were newly fitted up-a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England.
Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.
She wondered, with little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all.
I am afraid his circumstances may be bad.
The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved.
I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be?
I wonder whether it is so.
I would give anything to know the truth of it.
Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.
May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly.
I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams.
It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time.
May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.
His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it.
Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain.
So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings.
Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.
It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all.
As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both.
Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich.
His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty.
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby's behaviour.
To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother.
he exclaimed --" Improve this dear cottage!
THAT I will never consent to.
Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded.
But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world.
Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you.
But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?
Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage.
Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton.
Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him.
I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it.
Must it not have been so, Marianne?
speaking to her in a lowered voice.
Then continuing his former tone, he said, " And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood?
You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement!
Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted.
Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy.
Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me.
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them.
He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.
On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just.
So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect.
They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his back towards them.
He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the emotion which over-powered Marianne.
cried Mrs. Dashwood as she entered --" is she ill?
Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to London.
I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you.
But Mrs. Smith must be obliged- and her business will not detain you from us long I hope.
He coloured as he replied, " You are very kind, but I have no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately.
My visits to Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth.
Is Allenham the only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome?
For shame, Willoughby, can you wait for an invitation here?
His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied, " You are too good.
Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise.
Elinor felt equal amazement.
For a few moments every one was silent.
Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.
Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded.
This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint smile, " It is folly to linger in this manner.
I will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy.
He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room.
They saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.
Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned.
Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's.
She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust.
Willoughby's behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her.
In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
It seems but the work of a moment.
And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate?
And now, after only ten minutes notice-Gone too without intending to return- Something more than what be owned to us must have happened.
He did not speak, he did not behave like himself.
YOU must have seen the difference as well as I.
Can they have quarrelled?
Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?
He had not the power of accepting it.
I have thought it all over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you.
I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way- but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can-it will not satisfy YOU, I know; but you shall not talk ME out of my trust in it.
This is what I believe to have happened.
You will tell me, I know, that this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory at this.
And now, Elinor, what have you to say?
Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings!
You had rather take evil upon credit than good.
You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter.
You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn.
And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment?
Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties?
Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of?
To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while?
And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?
But suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him.
There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of every body.
Willoughby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.
But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at once.
Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him.
But you really do admit the justice of what I have said in his defence?I am happy-and he is acquitted.
It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith-and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present.
But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us.
my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and Marianne of concealment?
This is strange indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness.
Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?
Have we not perfectly understood each other?
Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect?
My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement?
How could such a thought occur to you?
How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection- that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?
You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together.
Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this time?
Do you suppose him really indifferent to her?
He must and does love her I am sure.
I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away.
If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed.
If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married.
But I require no such proof.
Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved.
You cannot doubt your sister's wishes.
It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect.
Is he not a man of honour and feeling?
Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm?
It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it.
I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning- he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality.
But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed.
Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected.
Though WE have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?
Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case.
It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable.
They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.
They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word.
Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty.
She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.
This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening.
She was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over herself.
Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.
She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it.
But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.
She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.
She got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at consolation from either.
Her sensibility was potent enough!
When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.
The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.
She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears.
In books too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving.
She read nothing but what they had been used to read together.
No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy.
But Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself.
We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir John's hands.
Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence.
But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her mother.
From you, her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.
It would be the natural result of your affection for her.
She used to be all unreserve, and to you more especially.
Supposing it possible that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry inflict!
At any rate it would be most ungenerous.
I should never deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.
I know Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible.
I would not attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct.
Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic delicacy.
We will put it by, that when he comes again... But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens.
cried Marianne, with strong surprise.
Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.
One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering away by herself.
Hitherto she had carefully avoided every companion in her rambles.
If her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when the others set off.
But at length she was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, would not then attempt more.
Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them.
In a few minutes they could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed,
and was hastening to meet him, when Elinor cried out,
The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air.
His air, his coat, his horse.
I knew how soon he would come.
She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her.
They were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman.
He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.
He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.
He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than even Elinor herself.
To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.
On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.
He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.
Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise.
She began almost to feel a dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.
After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.
No, he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.
she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same county with Elinor without seeing her before.
He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with some friends near Plymouth.
The woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves.
How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind!
What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired!
Now there is no one to regard them.
They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight.
As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments- but rousing herself again, " Now, Edward," said she, calling his attention to the prospect, " here is Barton valley.
Look up to it, and be tranquil if you can.
Did you ever see their equals?
To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and plantations.
You may see the end of the house.
And there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.
said Marianne to herself as she walked on.
Are the Middletons pleasant people?
How can you be so unjust?
They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards us have behaved in the friendliest manner.
Have you forgot, Marianne, how many pleasant days we have owed to them?
Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by talking of their present residence, its conveniences, & c. extorting from him occasional questions and remarks.
Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.
He received the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such a reception.
They had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood.
Indeed a man could not very well be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself.
His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his interest in their welfare again became perceptible.
He was not in spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.
The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.
said she, when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; " are you still to be a great orator in spite of yourself?
I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than inclination for a public life!
for famous you must be to satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find it a difficult matter.
I have no wish to be distinguished; and have every reason to hope I never shall.
I cannot be forced into genius and eloquence.
Your wishes are all moderate.
I wish as well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else it must be in my own way.
Greatness will not make me so.
said Marianne, " money can only give happiness where there is nothing else to give it.
Beyond a competence, it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned.
YOUR competence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external comfort must be wanting.
Your ideas are only more noble than mine.
Come, what is your competence?
I guessed how it would end.
I am sure I am not extravagant in my demands.
A proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less.
Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their future expenses at Combe Magna.
repeated Edward --" but why must you have hunters?
Every body does not hunt.
Marianne coloured as she replied, " But most people do.
cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.
cried Margaret, " how happy I should be!
I wonder what I should do with it!
Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops!
You, Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you-and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her.
And books- Thomson, Cowper, Scott-she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree.
Should not you, Marianne?
Forgive me, if I am very saucy.
But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old disputes.
You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent-some of it, at least-my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books.
At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.
It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.
You are not very gay yourself.
Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.
I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.
This has always been your doctrine, I am sure.
My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding.
All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour.
You must not confound my meaning.
I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?
I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.
I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!
If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy.
Edward started --" Reserved!
Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, " Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means?
Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?
His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent-and he sat for some time silent and dull.
Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.
His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect.
He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves.
But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.
I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.
You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give.
I call it a very fine country-the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug-with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there.
It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility-and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.
I know nothing of the picturesque.
Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses.
He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own.
Every body pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was.
I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning.
But, in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess.
I like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles.
I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees.
I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing.
I do not like ruined, tattered cottages.
I am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms.
I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower-and a troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the world.
Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her sister.
The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.
She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.
I remember her promising to give you some.
But I should have thought her hair had been darker.
Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt-but when she saw how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought could not be surpassed by his.
He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, " Yes; it is my sister's hair.
The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know.
Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise.
Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of mind still more settled.
He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little offence it had given her sister.
Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came to take a survey of the guest.
But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions, extended.
Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.
On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage them for both.
Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity.
why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure- What!
you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be nameless is gone!
This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.
said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he was sitting.
She gave him a brief reply.
Marianne's countenance was more communicative.
Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round her, and said, in a whisper, " I have been guessing.
Shall I tell you my guess?
Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,
How can you?But the time will come I hope... I am sure you will like him.
Edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the height.
Never had any week passed so quickly-he could hardly believe it to be gone.
He said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions.
He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being in town; but either to Norland or London, he must go.
He valued their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them.
Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.
Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for every thing strange on the part of her son.
His want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's disposition and designs.
The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother.
The old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all.
She would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield- when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy.
Some inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it-you would not be able to give them so much of your time.
But (with a smile) you would be materially benefited in one particular at least-you would know where to go when you left them.
It has been, and is, and probably will always be a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like independence.
But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being.
We never could agree in our choice of a profession.
I always preferred the church, as I still do.
But that was not smart enough for my family.
They recommended the army.
That was a great deal too smart for me.
The law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs.
But I had no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved.
I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle ever since.
In feeling, in action, in condition, in every thing.
You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself must be happy.
But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their education or state.
You want nothing but patience-or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.
Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent.
How much may not a few months do?
Their means were as different as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.
Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.
The business of self-command she settled very easily- with strong affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.
That her sister's affections WERE calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.
There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was produced.
Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.
From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of company.
She happened to be quite alone.
The closing of the little gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door.
Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to her.
Charlotte is very pretty, I can tell you.
You may see her if you look this way.
As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.
Has she run away because we are come?
I see her instrument is open.
They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to wait till the door was opened before she told HER story.
She came hallooing to the window, " How do you do, my dear?
How does Mrs. Dashwood do?
And where are your sisters?
you will be glad of a little company to sit with you.
I have brought my other son and daughter to see you.
Only think of their coming so suddenly!
I thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them.
I thought of nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon come back again "--
Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally unlike her in every respect.
She was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be.
Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more prepossessing.
She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away.
Her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased.
He entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he staid.
Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.
what a delightful room this is!
I never saw anything so charming!
Only think, Mamma, how it is improved since I was here last!
I always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am!
Only look, sister, how delightful every thing is!
How I should like such a house for myself!
Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the newspaper.
This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with surprise at them both.
Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told.
Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise.
I wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!
Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.
Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the paper.
He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered her in himself.
Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the question, as to show she understood it.
Mr. Palmer looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper.
Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by the drawings which hung round the room.
She got up to examine them.
dear, how beautiful these are!
Do but look, mama, how sweet!
I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them for ever.
And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room.
When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.
He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.
He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.
Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park.
Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do as they pleased.
But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way.
They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good.
But Sir John would not be satisfied-the carriage should be sent for them and they must come.
Lady Middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them.
Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.
said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.
The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull.
We must look for the change elsewhere.
As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before.
She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again.
said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, " for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow.
We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know.
It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton.
He never tells me any thing!
I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope.
They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, " I shall be quite disappointed if you do not.
I could get the nicest house in world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square.
I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public.
They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.
Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather.
Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain.
It makes one detest all one's acquaintance.
What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house?
How few people know what comfort is!
Sir John is as stupid as the weather.
The rest of the company soon dropt in.
Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.
We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know.
Not above ten miles, I dare say.
there is not much difference.
I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place.
Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said.
continued Mrs. Palmer --" then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose.
When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together.
Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?
So there I have the whip hand of you.
Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together.
It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer.
The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted.
said she, in a whisper, to Elinor.
Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear.
It was the desire of appearing superior to other people.
The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife.
Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas?
Now, pray do- and come while the Westons are with us.
You cannot think how happy I shall be!
It will be quite delightful- My love," applying to her husband, " don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?
They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.
I am sure you will like it of all things.
The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.
You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming!
it is very fatiguing to him!
for he is forced to make every body like him.
Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation.
It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M. P- But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me?
Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.
Don't palm all your abuses of languages upon me.
This is always the way with him!
Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll-all about any thing in the world.
She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.
I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland- I can't imagine why you should object to it.
Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties.
She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him.
Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham.
Mama saw him here once before- but I was with my uncle at Weymouth.
However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together.
He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off.
I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him.
I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know.
I assure you I heard of it in my way through town.
Colonel Brandon tell you of it!
Surely you must be mistaken.
To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do.
for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately.'
It will be quite delightful, I declare!
When is it to take place?
yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you.
He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing.
Mamma says HE was in love with your sister too- I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body.
yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you.
Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister.
She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her.
However, I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night.
Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.
You can't think how much I longed to see you!
It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage!
Nothing can be like it, to be sure!
And I am so glad your sister is going to be well married!
I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna.
It is a sweet place, by all accounts.
I believe," she added in a low voice, " he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could.
Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much.
But mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately.
Had he never owned his affection to yourself?
He had not seen me then above twice, for it was before I left school.
However, I am much happier as I am.
Mr. Palmer is the kind of man I like.
The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Barton were again left to entertain each other.
As it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day.
The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable.
She declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration.
Sir John's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles'arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world.
From such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding.
Sir John wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests.
Benevolent, philanthropic man!
It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.
Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable!
The children are all hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance.
And they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more.
You will be delighted with them I am sure.
They have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the children.
How can you be so cross as not to come?
Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion.
YOU are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related.
But Sir John could not prevail.
He could only obtain a promise of their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss Steeles to them.
She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.
She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment.
It suggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.
said she, on his taking Miss Steeles's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window --" He is full of monkey tricks.
And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, " How playful William is!
But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy.
The mother's consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer.
She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other.
With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying.
said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.
But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality.
Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.
She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.
Here too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat.
She merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly.
I never saw such fine children in my life- I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children.
A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, " And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood?
I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex.
In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.
I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast addition always.
I'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they used to have.
But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them.
For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil.
But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty.
Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen- I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?
But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him.
one never thinks of married men's being beaux-they have something else to do.
Anne," cried her sister, " you can talk of nothing but beaux- you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else.
And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough.
The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better.
Sir John could do no more; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends.
And I hope you may have as good luck yourself soon- but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner already.
The letter F-had been likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with Elinor.
But Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.
repeated Miss Steele; " Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?
your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood?
a very agreeable young man to be sure; I know him very well.
cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment to all her sister's assertions.
Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise.
How came they acquainted?
Elinor DID think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
replied Lucy; " I wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes.
Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?
Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence.
It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation,
I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours.
And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting YOU; indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble YOU.
I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs.
But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character.
But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised.
Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present-but the time MAY come-how soon it will come must depend upon herself-when we may be very intimately connected.
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
cried Elinor, " what do you mean?
Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars?
And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
What felt Elinor at that moment?
Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it.
She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.
And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent.
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
He was under my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while.
Did you never hear him talk of Mr.
It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards.
We cannot mean the same Mr.
She was silent- Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it.
It puts him quite out of heart.
Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, " To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face.
It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for- I have had it above these three years.
She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward's face.
She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness.
But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity.
They then proceeded a few paces in silence.
I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman.
Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication.
You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety.
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no change.
I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance.
Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask.
Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me.
She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all.
You can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether.
I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years.
Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom-we can hardly meet above twice a-year.
I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke.
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate.
continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, " I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.
As she said this, she looked directly at her companion.
And on my own account too-so dear as he is to me-I don't think I could be equal to it.
What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood?
What would you do yourself?
Your own judgment must direct you.
Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton?
He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill.
Did you think he came directly from town?
She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names.
I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor.
Elinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt no longer.
Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even THAT.
If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy.
I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.
Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?
She was mortified, shocked, confounded.
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no farther.
After sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched.
However small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description.
What Lucy had asserted to be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes.
Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her?
Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel?
Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart?
No; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present.
His affection was all her own.
She could not be deceived in that.
Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity.
What a softener of the heart was this persuasion!
How much could it not tempt her to forgive!
He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be.
In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless.
His imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise.
She might in time regain tranquillity; but HE, what had he to look forward to?
Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her-illiterate, artful, and selfish?
If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself.
These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief!
As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for herself.
The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress.
From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise.
She was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.
Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one.
And even Sir John's joking intelligence must have had some weight.
But indeed, while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof.
What other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future?
And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.
Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.
They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.
The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her.
They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things.
The card-table was then placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park.
They all rose up in preparation for a round game.
And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it.
This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, " Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already.
I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper.
My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done.
Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.
Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others.
No one made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, " Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse ME-you know I detest cards.
I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned.
And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that SHE had never made so rude a speech.
The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it.
that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele-" Dear little soul, how I do love her!
Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time.
Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work.
In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.
I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again.
How could you suppose so?
Believe me," and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, " nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea.
Could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?
I felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs.
But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me.
If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am sure.
Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them.
Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother.
I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her.
We must wait, it may be for many years.
With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know.
If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years'engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed.
Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.
I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that account from the first.
Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.
I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived.
But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures.
Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.
repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music- " Oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, I dare say.
Elinor blushed in spite of herself.
Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister.
A mutual silence took place for some time.
Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto --
That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.
He is brother to Mrs. John Dashwood-THAT must be recommendation enough to her husband.
They were again silent for many minutes.
At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh,
We seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end.
But you will not give me your advice, Miss Dashwood?
You know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes.
Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and replied, " This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had I formed one.
It raises my influence much too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person.
If you could be supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having.
Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.
Another pause therefore of many minutes'duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it.
said she with all her accustomary complacency.
But I dare say you will go for all that.
To be sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come to them.
I had quite depended upon meeting you there.
Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who have been wanting us to visit them these several years!
But I only go for the sake of seeing Edward.
He will be there in February, otherwise London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it.
The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond what the first invitation implied.
Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own.
Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman Square.
Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her.
Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations.
The reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year.
Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.
I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it.
Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you.
It will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT.
We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters.
I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon it.
It is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does not wish it.
So I would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it.
But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have.
how do you think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till this winter to have Charlotte with me.
Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better.
But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother- I feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence-Oh!
no, nothing should tempt me to leave her.
It should not, must not be a struggle.
Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.
When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music!
You will find Margaret so improved when you come back again!
I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one.
It is very right that you SHOULD go to town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of London.
You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt.
And in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other.
Marianne's countenance sunk.
What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward?
Do let me hear a word about the expense of it.
I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort.
To this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.
Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing.
Marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue.
After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted.
Mrs. Jennings received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her.
Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, was something.
Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them.
Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel.
Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone.
Her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.
Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week in January.
The Middletons were to follow in about a week.
The Miss Steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.
A short, a very short time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in town.
They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be.
She sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister.
They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.
The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment.
It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose.
In a few moments Marianne did the same.
Elinor said no more; it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged.
This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.
Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with eager rapidity.
Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny post.
This decided the matter at once.
Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening drew on.
She could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.
It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.
and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.
It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately left the room.
Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him.
She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards herself.
Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.
He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about their journey, and the friends they had left behind.
In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere.
Elinor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last.
Mrs. Jennings soon came in.
But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town today?
I warrant you she is a fine size by this time.
Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see-that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere.
Your friend, Miss Marianne, too-which you will not be sorry to hear.
I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do between you about her.
Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome.
I was young once, but I never was very handsome-worse luck for me.
However, I got a very good husband, and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more.
he has been dead these eight years and better.
But Colonel, where have you been to since we parted?
And how does your business go on?
Come, come, let's have no secrets among friends.
He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any.
Elinor now began to make the tea, and Marianne was obliged to appear again.
After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to stay long.
No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.
Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.
The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen that day.
So surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not come!
I forget what it was now, but it was something so droll!
Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch.
In Bond Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others.
said she to the footman who then entered with the parcels.
She was answered in the negative.
The man replied that none had.
said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window.
repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister with uneasiness.
my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner!
I long to inquire; and how will MY interference be borne.
She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious enquiry into the affair.
Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them.
The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others.
I always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart.
This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country.
It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.
But " (with a little return of anxiety) " it cannot be expected to last long.
At this time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it.
Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity.
In another day or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer-nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!
Mary always has her own way.
But if she DID, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact.
Whatever the truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable herself.
And Marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of a frost.
There seems to me a very decided difference.
I can hardly keep my hands warm even in my muff.
It was not so yesterday, I think.
The clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon.
Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost.
The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind.
She feared it was a strengthening regard.
It grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at Barton.
About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was also arrived.
His card was on the table when they came in from the morning's drive.
cried Marianne, " he has been here while we were out.
Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to say, " Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.
But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jenning's entrance, escaped with the precious card.
This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation.
From this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing.
She insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.
Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second visit there.
A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table,
cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.
But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.
said Elinor, unable to be longer silent.
returned Elinor in some confusion; " indeed, Marianne, I have nothing to tell.
We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing.
Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater openness in Marianne.
Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it aloud.
It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the following evening.
Business on Sir John's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.
Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball.
This was an affair, however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve.
He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the room.
Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it was enough-HE was not there-and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure.
And thus ended their discourse.
Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise.
She complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.
Marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt.
Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account of her real situation with respect to him.
Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was announced.
Marianne, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it.
He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.
Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening.
After a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother?
Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant?
He tried to smile as he replied, " your sister's engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known.
He looked surprised and said, " I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of.
By whom can you have heard it mentioned?
I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the question.
Is every thing finally settled?
But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding.
Excuse me, Miss Dashwood.
I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence.
Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains.
These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for her sister, affected her very much.
She was not immediately able to say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give.
The real state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little.
She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.
He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, " to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her,"took leave, and went away.
Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote.
When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.
After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table.
They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman.
She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady.
Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her.
At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.
she exclaimed, " he is there-he is there-Oh!
why does he not look at me?
why cannot I speak to him?
Perhaps he has not observed you yet.
This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish.
She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature.
At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him.
He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town.
Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word.
But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed.
Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, " Good God!
Willoughby, what is the meaning of this?
Have you not received my letters?
Will you not shake hands with me?
He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment.
During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure.
Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil.
After a moment's pause, he spoke with calmness.
My card was not lost, I hope.
cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety.
What can be the meaning of it?
Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell me, what is the matter?
Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water.
Tell him I must see him again-must speak to him instantly- I cannot rest-I shall not have a moment's peace till this is explained-some dreadful misapprehension or other- Oh go to him this moment.
No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait.
This is not the place for explanations.
In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm.
She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.
Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon the carriage could be found.
Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street.
Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself.
She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past.
Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it.
Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.
As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern.
Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could ESTEEM Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported.
But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby-in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him.
In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,
The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction.
It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby.
Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world.
At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jenning's notice entirely to herself.
That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking.
Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,
MY girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature.
I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.
Pray, when are they to be married?
Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, " And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby?
I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer.
I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married.
Don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met?
Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes?
Come, come, this won't do.
Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long.
I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte.
Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now.
Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's.
The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony.
Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as follows:
I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions.
My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem.
That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled.
It is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me.
With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined.
Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed.
A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying,
This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, " Oh!
Elinor, I am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.
Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.
Think of your mother; think of her misery while YOU suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself.
but do not torture me so.
how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion!
Happy, happy Elinor, YOU cannot have an idea of what I suffer.
if you knew- And can you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!
Mine is a misery which nothing can do away.
Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation?
Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period-if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it.
Every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful.
cried Marianne, " there has been no engagement.
He has broken no faith with me.
It was every day implied, but never professedly declared.
Sometimes I thought it had been-but it never was.
Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all.
The first, which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, was to this effect.
Berkeley Street, January.
An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist.
I wish you may receive this in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend on it.
At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow.
Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the Middletons ', was in these words:--
I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day.
Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain.
You had better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one.
We were last night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance.
I have been told that you were asked to be of the party.
You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there.
But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise.
The contents of her last note to him were these:--
Again I demand an explanation of it.
I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify.
I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it.
You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion.
Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you.
My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what I now suffer.
If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.
That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe.
Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish.
This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication.
Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment!
Have you forgot the last evening of our being together at Barton?
The morning that we parted too!
When he told me that it might be many weeks before we met again-his distress-can I ever forget his distress?
For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,
By whom can he have been instigated?
I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty.
This woman of whom he writes-whoever she be-or any one, in short, but your own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me.
Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?
Elinor would not contend, and only replied, " Whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits.
It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence.
I care not who knows that I am wretched.
The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world.
Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like-may resist insult, or return mortification-but I cannot.
I must feel-I must be wretched-and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can.
But to appear happy when I am so miserable-Oh!
Again they were both silent.
Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!
Cruel, cruel-nothing can acquit you.
Whatever he might have heard against me-ought he not to have suspended his belief?
ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself?
Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words?
Oh, barbarously insolent- Elinor, can he be justified?
no one, no one-he talked to me only of myself.
Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.
I must go and comfort mama.
Can not we be gone to-morrow?
I came only for Willoughby's sake-and now who cares for me?
We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that.
The Middletons and Palmers-how am I to bear their pity?
The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton!
Oh, what would HE say to that!
Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.
Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern.
said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.
she looks very bad- No wonder.
He is to be married very soon-a good-for-nothing fellow!
I have no patience with him.
Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was.
Well, said I, all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.
And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it.
I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day.
But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers.
I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with.
The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her.
She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.
Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them.
Elinor even advised her against it.
But " no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less.
When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected.
Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself.
Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so.
She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays.
Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day.
Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire.
As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer.
With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.
cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, " how it grieves me to see her!
And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine!
And the dried cherries too!
nothing seems to do her any good.
I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it.
Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill!
But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you!
they care no more about such things-
a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome.
I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man.
But the family are all rich together.
and by all accounts, it won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces.
dashing about with his curricle and hunters!
Well, it don't signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him.
Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once?
I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round.
But that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age.
Is she said to be amiable?
But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made- What now," after pausing a moment --" your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself.
Is there nothing one can get to comfort her?
Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone.
Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little.
She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?
Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this evening.
I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest.
Let her name her own supper, and go to bed.
no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that.
And so the letter that came today finished it!
I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money.
But then you know, how should I guess such a thing?
I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them.
how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it!
If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it.
But I shall see them tomorrow.
Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe.
It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world.
You saw I did not all dinner time.
No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will.
For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner'tis blown over and forgot.
And what does talking ever do you know?
I must do THIS justice to Mr. Willoughby-he has broken no positive engagement with my sister.
Don't pretend to defend him.
No positive engagement indeed!
after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!
Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth.
After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.
He will have her at last; aye, that he will.
Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer.
how he'll chuckle over this news!
I hope he will come tonight.
It will be all to one a better match for your sister.
Two thousand a year without debt or drawback-except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be'prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify?
Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner!
how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there!
A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw.
To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother.
Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can.
One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down.
If we CAN but put Willoughby out of her head!
And then rising, she went away to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.
But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do.
Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her.
In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.
Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the world.
Do take it to your sister.
But I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself.
Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence.
Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered-" The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see.
He knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear.
He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her sister.
If you know it already, as surely you must, I may be spared.
This seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us.
Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable!
Two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all.
One thing, especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still more:as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat in Somersetshire.
My astonishment- but it would be impossible to describe what I felt.
The communicative lady I learnt, on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian.
But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand pounds?
In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation.
I have only to hope that they may be proportionately short.
It has been, it is a most cruel affliction.
Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps-but I am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her.
He has been very deceitful!
and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him.
said Colonel Brandon, " there is, indeed!
But your sister does not-I think you said so-she does not consider quite as you do?
He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped.
From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes.
Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.
At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third could resist it with energy.
In one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it.
Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.
Her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness.
All that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.
Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid.
She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself.
With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,
The work of one moment was destroyed by the next.
The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.
But the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort.
Willoughby filled every page.
All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone.
Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.
Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning.
In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door.
I thought we HAD been safe.
Marianne moved to the window --
My object-my wish-my sole wish in desiring it-I hope, I believe it is-is to be a means of giving comfort- no, I must not say comfort-not present comfort-but conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind.
Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn Marianne.
MY gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and HERS must be gained by it in time.
Pray, pray let me hear it.
You will find me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin.
A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it SHALL be a short one.
On such a subject," sighing heavily, " can I have little temptation to be diffuse.
He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on.
He looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,
The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits.
This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father.
Our ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and friends.
I cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of having ever felt.
Her's, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate.
At seventeen she was lost to me for ever.
She was married-married against her inclination to my brother.
Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered.
And this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.
My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her.
I have never told you how this was brought on.
We were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland.
The treachery, or the folly, of my cousin's maid betrayed us.
I was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father's point was gained.
I had depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one-but had her marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it.
This however was not the case.
My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.
The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural.
She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned.
But can we wonder that, with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should fall?
Had I remained in England, perhaps-but I meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange.
The shock which her marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation, " was of trifling weight-was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce.
It was THAT which threw this gloom- even now the recollection of what I suffered --
He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room.
Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his distress, could not speak.
He saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect.
A few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.
My first care, when I DID arrive, was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy.
I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin.
Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person.
He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief.
At last, however, and after I had been six months in England, I DID find her.
Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister.
So altered-so faded-worn down by acute suffering of every kind!
hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doted.
What I endured in so beholding her-but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it-I have pained you too much already.
That she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was-yes, in such a situation it was my greatest comfort.
Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given.
I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited her every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her last moments.
Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.
Their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other be.
But to what does all this lead?
I seem to have been distressing you for nothing.
Miss Dashwood-a subject such as this-untouched for fourteen years-it is dangerous to handle it at all!
I WILL be more collected-more concise.
She left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about three years old.
She loved the child, and had always kept it with her.
It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school.
I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford.
I called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her.
But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared.
I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for his health.
I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter-better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all.
In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture.
What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too.
cried Elinor, " could it be-could Willoughby!
Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but HAD he known it, what would it have availed?
Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister?
No, he had already done that, which no man who CAN feel for another would do.
He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address!
He had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her.
Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt for all your sakes.
When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it WAS known.
My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it.
To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister-but what could I do?
I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim him.
But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her.
Surely this comparison must have its use with her.
She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing.
They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace.
On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them.
Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment.
Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you.
Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.
Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier.
Have you," she continued, after a short silence, " ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?
One meeting was unavoidable.
Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,
Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct.
We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad.
Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it.
and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!
Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him.
When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see.
Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.
Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune.
Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!
mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which SHE could wish her not to indulge!
She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks.
From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends.
She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their brother.
Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown away.
Marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.
Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all.
Sir John, could not have thought it possible.
Such a good-natured fellow!
He did not believe there was a bolder rider in England!
It was an unaccountable business.
He wished him at the devil with all his heart.
He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world!
No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together.
Such a scoundrel of a fellow!
It was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies!
and this was the end of it!
Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry.
The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to Elinor.
She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.
The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others.
It was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in ONE person at least among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was ONE who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health.
Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature.
Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, " It is very shocking, indeed!
Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to Miss Dashwood.
He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence.
The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to HER; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.
Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was married.
She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.
She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.
The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.
About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.
Elinor only was sorry to see them.
Their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her STILL in town.
I was almost sure you would not leave London yet awhile; though you TOLD me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a MONTH.
But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point.
It would have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came.
And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone.
I am amazingly glad you did not keep to YOUR WORD.
Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command to make it appear that she did NOT.
Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did.
cried Mrs. Jennings; " very pretty, indeed!
and the Doctor is a single man, I warrant you.
My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never think about him from one hour's end to another.
here comes your beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house.
said I-I cannot think who you mean.
The Doctor is no beau of mine.
replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, " and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of.
Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would NOT, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.
Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
interposed Mrs. Jennings.
My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.
but such old friends as Lucy and me- I think she might see US; and I am sure we would not speak a word.
Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal.
Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them.
After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour.
She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.
On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait.
All that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch.
But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness.
At last the affair was decided.
Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.
She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother.
Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop.
John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive.
Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.
Harry was vastly pleased.
THIS morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town.
I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal.
But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings.
I understand she is a woman of very good fortune.
And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to THEM.
As my mother-in-law's relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect.
They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand.
Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express.
But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected.
And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing!
Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing.
It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you.
Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door.
Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave.
He came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; " but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where.
Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her.
His manners to THEM, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to HIM.
After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.
The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented.
As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began.
He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life.
I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it.
What is the amount of his fortune?
A very little trouble on your side secures him.
Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it.
But some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself.
And there can be no reason why you should not try for him.
It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side-in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable-you have too much sense not to see all that.
Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family.
It is a match that must give universal satisfaction.
In short, it is a kind of thing that "lowering his voice to an important whisper --" will be exceedingly welcome to ALL PARTIES.
Recollecting himself, however, he added, " That is, I mean to say-your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure you.
And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day.
Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.
And yet it is not very unlikely.
He has a most excellent mother.
Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place.
Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds.
A very desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in time.
A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit.
To give you another instance of her liberality:The other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds.
And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here.
He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,
I do not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in time be better.
The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain.
And then I have made a little purchase within this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where old Gibson used to live.
The land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my duty to buy it.
I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands.
A man must pay for his convenience; and it HAS cost me a vast deal of money.
Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were) to your mother.
Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, & c. to supply the place of what was taken away.
You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is.
There is not a stone laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden marked out.
The old walnut trees are all come down to make room for it.
It will be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty.
We have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow.
Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.
Few people of common prudence will do THAT; and whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of.
Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard.
Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises.
Indeed, brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far.
But, my dear Elinor, what is the matter with Marianne?she looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin.
At her time of life, any thing of an illness destroys the bloom for ever!
Her's has been a very short one!
She was as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to attract the man.
There was something in her style of beauty, to please them particularly.
I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of YOU, but so it happened to strike her.
She will be mistaken, however.
I question whether Marianne NOW, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if YOU do not do better.
I know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors.
He had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect.
They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John came in before their visit ended.
Abundance of civilities passed on all sides.
Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know.
And Mrs. Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter.
But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both.
Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood.
There was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.
The intelligence however, which SHE would not give, soon flowed from another quarter.
Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood.
He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write.
Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street.
Twice was his card found on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements.
Elinor was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him.
Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure.
They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to be of the party.
The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.
On Elinor its effect was very different.
She began immediately to determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy- she hardly knew how she could bear it!
These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth.
The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law.
said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs together-for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same time --" There is nobody here but you, that can feel for me- I declare I can hardly stand.
Good gracious- In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness depends on-that is to be my mother!
Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect.
Her complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature.
But while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four.
Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.
The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's ability to support it.
John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less.
The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.
The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.
I do not know whether you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well.
The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection.
Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough- for, colouring a little, she immediately said,
But then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added,
But SHE does every thing well.
Marianne could not bear this- She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,
And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.
Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, " Miss Morton is Lord Morton's daughter.
Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity.
Marianne's feelings did not stop here.
Don't let them make YOU unhappy.
She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears.
Every body's attention was called, and almost every body was concerned- Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did- Mrs.
Jennings, with a very intelligent " Ah!
poor dear," immediately gave her her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair.
In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.
You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne WAS remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor- Now you see it is all gone.
Or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she OUGHT to have rejoiced.
The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.
Could anything be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday?
So exceeding affable as she was- 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?
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-
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.
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,
But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she SHOULD tell her sister.
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 shewed 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.
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.
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.
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.
she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, " don't think of MY health.
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.
said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.
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!
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.
So dull, so wretchedly dull- But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now.
And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private.
But what was that, when such friends were to be met?
Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied,
And I really believe he HAS the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure.
He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw.
Edward, it is so, and I will say it.
are you never to hear yourself praised- Then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation.
The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away.
said Marianne; " my dear Edward, this must not be.
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer.
But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away.
said Marianne, on her leaving them.
It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves.
Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, " You know, Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear.
If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it.
I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted.
All that she could hope, was that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting-and this she had every reason to expect.
Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq.
was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before.
For their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody.
Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.
They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on THEIR ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize.
Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.
Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but THAT did not signify.
It was censure in common use, and easily given.
Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy.
It checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other.
Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering.
Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely.
Would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned.
An effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend.
Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor!
But so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.
One thing DID disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.
I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood.
It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in-a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her.
But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance.
The power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be her's.
But that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them.
To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being together, when it was finished.
The events of this evening were not very remarkable.
As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room.
In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's.
She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy.
Happy had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations!
For then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun.
But while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the other.
The evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing.
Why would you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life?
If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been prevented.'
This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error.
Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.
Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near Dawlish.
He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house.
And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy.
I advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage.
My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's.
I was to decide on the best of them.
And that I fancy, will be the end of it.
I was last month at my friend Elliott's, near Dartford.
Lady Elliott wished to give a dance.
said she;'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed.
There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?'
I immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said,'My dear Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy.
The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.'
Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought.
We measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan.
So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling.
Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition.
As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home.
The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jenning's engagements kept her from home.
The expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father.
Fanny was startled at the proposal.
You know I am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews.
But they are Lady Middleton's visitors.
How can I ask them away from her?
Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection.
Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,
But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days with us.
They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward.
We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more.
I am sure you will like them; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!
Mr. Dashwood was convinced.
Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare them.
This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy.
Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views!
Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings!
It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'time.
Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater.
The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.
Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking.
Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them.
But you shall hear it all- When I got to Mr. Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child.
She was sure it was very ill-it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.
So I looked at it directly, and,'Lord!
my dear,' says I,'it is nothing in the world, but the red gum --' and nurse said just the same.
And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news.
says I,'is Mrs. Dashwood ill?'
So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this.
Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter- till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out.
So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride.
She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the country.
So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on.
And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit.
Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do.
Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon HIS knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes.
THEN she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar.
The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad.
I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her.
what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it!
To have his love used so scornfully!
for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may.
I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion- and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same.
I have no pity for either of them.
I have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness.
how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours-or a little bigger-with two maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly.
Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.
She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy.
What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself.
For HIM she felt much compassion- for Lucy very little-and it cost her some pains to procure that little- for the rest of the party none at all.
As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion.
No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward.
But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.
She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.
Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief- THAT belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively.
Elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered.
But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither.
Edward seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she HAD loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself!
As for Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Edward for her.
She would not even admit it to have been natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.
The first question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,
When Lucy first came to Barton Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.
At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips could not utter.
After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed --
cried Marianne again-" So calm- so cheerful- how have you been supported?
I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy.
Marianne seemed much struck.
But I did not love only him- and while the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt.
Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion.
I would not have you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself.
I have many things to support me.
I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther.
I acquit Edward of essential misconduct.
I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so.
Marianne was quite subdued-
The tenderest caresses followed this confession.
She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration- She attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, " Yes, ma'am.
She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat- Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to any thing herself.
The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife.
They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.
Mrs. Ferrars too-in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress-but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome.
she was in hysterics all yesterday.
But I would not alarm you too much.
Donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing.
She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel!
She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived- meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence had been placed!
And now to be so rewarded!
Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.
While she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person- such a suspicion could never have entered her head!
If she suspected ANY prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in THAT quarter.
She was quite in an agony.
We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward.
But I am sorry to relate what ensued.
All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail.
Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded.
I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before.
Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, " Gracious God!
Your exclamation is very natural.
Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore.
Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.
Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement.
He would stand to it, cost him what it might.
I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal.
I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband.
John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune.
He therefore replied, without any resentment,
Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.
And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary.
In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings.
We all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt.
It has been dignified and liberal.
Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one.
Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward him.
He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for WE of course can make no inquiry.
It is a melancholy consideration.
Born to the prospect of such affluence!
I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable.
We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him.
cried Mrs. Jennings, " I am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I could see him.
It is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns.
Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it.
But as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him.
And there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all-his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle THAT estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on proper conditions.
I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business.
said Mrs. Jennings, " that is HER revenge.
Everybody has a way of their own.
But I don't think mine would be, to make one son independent, because another had plagued me.
Marianne got up and walked about the room.
I feel for him sincerely.
Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party.
Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit.
THEY only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune.
Elinor gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment.
But though confidence between them was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone.
Her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more.
Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings.
The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, though it was only the second week in March.
Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.
An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was herself left to quiet reflection.
She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her.
Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,
She will tell you any thing if you ask.
You see I cannot leave Mrs.
It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too, that she would tell any thing WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt.
And then lowering her voice, " I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it.
And Lady Middleton, is SHE angry?
I have had such a time of it!
I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life.
She vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever.
Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night.
There now, YOU are going to laugh at me too.
But why should not I wear pink ribbons?
I do not care if it IS the Doctor's favourite colour.
I am sure, for my part, I should never have known he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so.
My cousins have been so plaguing me!
I declare sometimes I do not know which way to look before them.
She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first.
Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain.
Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that.
I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be.
And it was entirely for HER sake, and upon HER account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own.
I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it.
But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that-Oh, la!
So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living.
Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by?
Oh, for shame- To be sure you must know better than that.
No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door.
cried Elinor; " have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door?
I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself.
How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?
there is nothing in THAT.
I only stood at the door, and heard what I could.
And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said.
Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.
What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an't she?
And your brother and sister were not very kind!
However, I shan't say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for.
And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight.
Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained.
I wonder what curacy he will get- Good gracious!
They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living.
I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world-'La!'
I shall say directly,'I wonder how you could think of such a thing?
I write to the Doctor, indeed!'
You have got your answer ready.
Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another more necessary.
here come the Richardsons.
I had a vast deal more to say to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer.
I assure you they are very genteel people.
He makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach.
I suppose Lady Middleton won't ask us any more this bout.
Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here.
Remember me kindly to her.
if you have not got your spotted muslin on- I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.
The continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following natural remark.
how poor they will be- I must see what I can give them towards furnishing their house.
Two maids and two men, indeed- as I talked of t'other day- No, no, they must get a stout girl of all works- Betty's sister would never do for them NOW.
The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucy herself.
though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always be in one another's love.
We have had great trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it.
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.
That was just like Lucy- Poor soul!
I wish I COULD get him a living, with all my heart- She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings, you see.
She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived- Very well upon my word.
That sentence is very prettily turned.
Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough.
How attentive she is, to think of every body- Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me.
It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great credit.
The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day.
She sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give her ease, Barton must do it.
Elinor was hardly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge.
The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with them.
When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not very auspicious.
she cried, with great agitation.
As Marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started.
Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guest, that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.
we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats.
This set the matter beyond a doubt.
She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to be the proper etiquette.
What Elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not think THAT any material objection- and Mrs. Jennings commended her in her heart for being so honest.
They then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the Colonel's calm voice-
Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry out, " Lord!
but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.
What had really passed between them was to this effect.
Elinor told him that it was.
I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him.
He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more.
I understand that he intends to take orders.
Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting him to it, will be very great.
Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.
She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another.
But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself.
Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele.
She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day.
I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive.
If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present.
What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness.
His marriage must still be a distant good- at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon-
And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart.
There are not many men who would act as he has done.
Few people who have so compassionate a heart!
I never was more astonished in my life.
my dear, you are very modest.
I an't the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen.
repeated Mrs. Jennings --" Oh!
as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity.
Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them.
And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw.
why don't he repair it?who should do it but himself?
They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said-
But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone.
I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it.
Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.
very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed.
One day's delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else.
I shall do THAT directly.
It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination.
This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly.
Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend.
A few moments'reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed-
Mr. Ferrars is to be the man.
Well, so much the better for him.
Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you.
But, my dear, is not this rather out of character?
Should not the Colonel write himself?sure, he is the proper person.
Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion.
Well THAT is an odd kind of delicacy!
However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.)
You know your own concerns best.
I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed.
And away she went; but returning again in a moment,
I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress.
But whether she would do for a lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell.
She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle.
However, you will think of all that at your leisure.
How she should begin-how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern.
Her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance.
Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said.
I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper.
I am charged with a most agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.)
Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable.
What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him.
He LOOKED all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words,
I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's discernment of it.
I have had no hand in it.
I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift.
As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps-indeed I know he HAS, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation.
For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak- at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,
I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly.
He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman.
Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater.
Elinor told him the number of the house.
And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.
Did not I do right?And I suppose you had no great difficulty-You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?
cried Mrs. Jennings; " Lord!
my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months!
Lord bless me- I am sure it would put ME quite out of patience- And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.
Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already.
But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it.
Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I sha'nt go if Lucy an't there.
Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more.
Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas.
The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike.
Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came out.
He expressed great pleasure in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in.
They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room- Nobody was there.
NOW especially there cannot be-but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites- Why would not Marianne come?
Elinor made what excuse she could for her.
This living of Colonel Brandon's-can it be true?has he really given it to Edward?I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it.
I suppose, however-on recollection-that the case may probably be THIS.
Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it- Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it.
Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.
he cried, after hearing what she said --" what could be the Colonel's motive?
Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished.
Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account-she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him- She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!
Elinor," said John, " your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature.
When Edward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible.
Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son.
Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world.
Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's tone, calmly replied,
Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent- His reflections ended thus.
I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that light-a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all.
But however, all that is quite out of the question-not to be thought of or mentioned-as to any attachment you know-it never could be-all that is gone by.
But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please you.
Not that you have any reason to regret, my dear Elinor.
There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well-quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered.
Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?
They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject.
Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very different, was not less striking than it had been on HIM.
He laughed most immoderately.
Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited.
It was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him.
He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of her's, but by his own sensibility.
I am extremely sorry for it-for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world.
My poor mother was half frantic.
The merest awkward country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty- I remember her perfectly.
Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poor Edward.
But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier-I think it is most probable-that something might have been hit on.
I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light.
You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.'
I cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found.
But now it is all too late.
He must be starved, you know- that is certain; absolutely starved.
He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject.
But though SHE never spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself.
Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road.
For the convenience of Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.
Nor could she leave the place in which Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which SHE could have no share, without shedding many tears.
Elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.
Their journey was safely performed.
The second day brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they drove up to Cleveland.
Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn.
The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay at Cleveland.
With great surprise therefore, did she find herself prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner.
She had depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even SHE could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.
Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away.
Mrs. Palmer had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements, and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther than Reading that night.
Elinor, however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book.
Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome.
The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low.
Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not what to expect to find him in his own family.
For the rest of his character and habits, they were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life.
He was nice in his eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business.
Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined.
Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely; and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.
Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her accustomary employments.
The little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she THEN really believed herself, that it would be a very short one.
The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment, did not appear worse.
Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival.
It gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.
Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her situation continued, with little variation, the same.
Mr. Harris, who attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful.
Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence.
On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better.
Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit.
But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began- Towards the evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before.
Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it.
Mrs. Jennings, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.
It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.
Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse.
It was lower and quicker than ever!
and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.
It was no time for hesitation.
Her fears and her difficulties were immediately before him.
Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome.
She thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.
HE, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return.
Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind.
The horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage.
It was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night.
It was a night of almost equal suffering to both.
Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared.
Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.
She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if HE could not come, for some other advice, when the former-but not till after five o'clock-arrived.
He promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them.
With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.
Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope.
Her heart was really grieved.
The rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck a less interested person with concern.
On Mrs. Jennings's compassion she had other claims.
She had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy.
The distress of her sister too, particularly a favourite, was before her- and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to HER what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in HER sufferings was very sincere.
Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit- but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce.
His medicines had failed- the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet-not more herself-remained in a heavy stupor.
Elinor, catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice.
But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood.
Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections.
Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance- and Elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope.
Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch-she hardly knew for what.
Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.
Others even arose to confirm it.
Her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze.
Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her entirely out of danger.
Elinor could not be cheerful.
Her joy was of a different kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety.
Marianne restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude- but it lead to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles.
All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.
She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every breath.
The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected back.
At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards them.
The Colonel, too- perhaps scarcely less an object of pity- Oh- how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance!
At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea.
Of breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much- and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome.
Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep.
The night was cold and stormy.
The wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not.
Marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers-they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience.
She instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her.
The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view.
By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at that moment.
The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopt at the door-of her doubt-her dread-perhaps her despair- and of what SHE had to tell- with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm.
All that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs.
The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house.
She rushed to the drawing-room- she entered it- and saw only Willoughby.
Your business cannot be with ME.
The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house.
My business is with you, and only you.
in the utmost amazement --" well, sir- be quick-and if you can-less violent.
She hesitated; she knew not what to do.
The possibility of Colonel Brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her.
But she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged.
After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down.
He took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either.
He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her.
I heard it from the servant.
God be praised- But is it true?
He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness.
He rose up, and walked across the room.
Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever.
She began to think that be must be in liquor- the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying,
cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at.
The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's recollection,
I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma-from your sister.
he cried, in the same eager tone- " Then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it.
But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds- NOW will you listen to me?
When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before.
Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind-It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what SHE was, that my heart should have been so insensible!
But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it.
Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection.
Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,
Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing- Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject.
But have I ever known it?Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice?or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers?But I have done it.
To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing.
Even THEN, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed.
I will not reason here-nor will I stop for YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound.
The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever.
At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to display.
But in the interim-in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private-a circumstance occurred-an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort.
A discovery took place,"here he hesitated and looked down-" Mrs.
And how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I confess is beyond my comprehension.
Could it be an impartial one?
I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me.
I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge-that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint.
If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding-I do not mean, however, to defend myself.
Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return.
I wish-I heartily wish it had never been.
But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me --(may I say it?)
was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind-Oh!
Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.
You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence.
The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world-every thing was against me.
The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it.
She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my present visit.
In short, it ended in a total breach.
By one measure I might have saved myself.
In the height of her morality, good woman!
she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza.
That could not be-and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.
The night following this affair-I was to go the next morning-was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be.
The struggle was great-but it ended too soon.
I had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do.
A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire- I was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement.
But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate.
To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my resolution.
In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable-and left her hoping never to see her again.
said Elinor, reproachfully; " a note would have answered every purpose- Why was it necessary to call?
I could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself-and I resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to Honiton.
The sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.
You were all gone I do not know where.
I had left her only the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!
A few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body!
But in this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling.
Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately-I never shall forget it-united too with such reliance, such confidence in me- Oh, God- what a hard-hearted rascal I was!
They were both silent for a few moments.
I cannot think of it- It won't do- Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence.
Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery.
I owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now.
Well, I went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was only indifferent.
My journey to town-travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously-no creature to speak to-my own reflections so cheerful-when I looked forward every thing so inviting- when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing- oh, it was a blessed journey!
To know that Marianne was in town was-in the same language-a thunderbolt- Thunderbolts and daggers- what a reproof would she have given me- her taste, her opinions-I believe they are better known to me than my own- and I am sure they are dearer.
Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again- yet she felt it her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.
Willoughby- Remember that you are married.
Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear.
But this note made me know myself better.
I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously.
But every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me.
To retreat was impossible.
All that I had to do, was to avoid you both.
You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with you.
I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by.
Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long.
I avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common.
Not aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's.
He asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening- Had he NOT told me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him.
The next morning brought another short note from Marianne-still affectionate, open, artless, confiding-everything that could make MY conduct most hateful.
I tried-but could not frame a sentence.
But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day.
If you CAN pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN.
With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman- Those three or four weeks were worse than all.
It was a horrid sight- yet when I thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world.
She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look and hue.
A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded.
Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus:
Your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?
Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning.
I was breakfasting at the Ellisons- and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings.
It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine-and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion.
Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever.
Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.
She was well paid for her impudence.
She read what made her wretched.
Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion-her malice-At all events it must be appeased.
And, in short-what do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing?delicate-tender-truly feminine-was it not?
The original was all her own-her own happy thoughts and gentle diction.
But what could I do- we were engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed-But I am talking like a fool.
Preparation- day- In honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture.
And after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched?It must have been only to one end.
Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne.
Her three notes-unluckily they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever-I was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them.
And the lock of hair-that too I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence- the dear lock-all, every memento was torn from me.
You had made your own choice.
It was not forced on you.
Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least.
She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you.
To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne-nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.
Have I explained away any part of my guilt?
You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked.
But I hardly know-the misery that you have inflicted-I hardly know what could have made it worse.
You tell me that she has forgiven me already.
Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness.
Tell her of my misery and my penitence-tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.
But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness.
Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to-though probably he did not think it WOULD-vex me horridly.
His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy.
What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying-and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments-for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed?
ONE person I was sure would represent me as capable of any thing-What I felt was dreadful- My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was in my carriage.
The world had made him extravagant and vain-Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed.
Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.
From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said --
I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two.
She could not refuse to give him hers's- he pressed it with affection.
said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go.
Elinor assured him that she did- that she forgave, pitied, wished him well-was even interested in his happiness-and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it.
His answer was not very encouraging.
Domestic happiness is out of the question.
If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means-it may put me on my guard-at least, it may be something to live for.
Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.
Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again --
Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
I shall now go away and live in dread of one event.
She can never be more lost to you than she is now.
And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear-but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that where I have most injured I can least forgive.
And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.
Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister.
But she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less.
When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes.
The past, the present, the future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister.
He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.
As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night; and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed.
But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits.
Willoughby, " poor Willoughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.
But her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.
She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.
Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs. Willoughby's death.
Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.
Elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward.
But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it.
Marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had contributed to place her- and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Elinor.
It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.
My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness.
Colonel Brandon loves Marianne.
He has told me so himself.
Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention.
Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable.
And I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two.
It came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly.
He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her.
Here, however, Elinor perceived- not the language, not the professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.
But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men.
What answer did you give him?Did you allow him to hope?
my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
Marianne might at that moment be dying.
But he did not ask for hope or encouragement.
His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend-not an application to a parent.
Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do everything- Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby- His own merits must soon secure it.
There, however, he is quite mistaken.
His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed- and his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy.
And his person, his manners too, are all in his favour.
My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so handsome as Willoughby-but at the same time, there is something much more pleasing in his countenance- There was always a something- if you remember- in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like.
Elinor could NOT remember it- but her mother, without waiting for her assent, continued,
Their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness-often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other.
I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with HIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon.
She paused- Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.
Poor Elinor- here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford- but her spirit was stubborn.
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.
When there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.
At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton.
On HER measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods'stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable.
The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue.
Every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits.
To Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful.
As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window.
But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise.
After dinner she would try her piano-forte.
The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms.
I know we shall be happy.
I know the summer will pass happily away.
I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading.
I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study.
Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement.
But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon.
By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want.
Her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity.
Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed it.
But the resolution was made only to be broken.
Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out.
But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house.
Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,
hesitatingly it was said-" Or will it be wrong?I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do.
Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,
She was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger health- and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.
He will suffer enough in them.
I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours.
My illness has made me think-It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection.
Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect.
I considered the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others.
I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave.
My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong.
Had I died- it would have been self-destruction.
I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery- wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once.
Had I died- in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister- You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart- How should I have lived in YOUR remembrance- My mother too!
How could you have consoled her- I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself.
Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged.
Every body seemed injured by me.
The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt.
But you- you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me.
I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself- Your example was before me; but to what avail?Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?
Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved.
Marianne pressed her hand and replied,
I have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it-my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved.
They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself.
I shall now live solely for my family.
You, my mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you.
As for Willoughby-to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle.
His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions.
But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment.
She paused-and added in a low voice, " If I could but know HIS heart, everything would become easy.
She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
Marianne said not a word- She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.
A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one.
She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks.
As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her tears, " Tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs.
Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite.
She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt- she was sorry for him- she wished him happy.
But the feelings of the past could not be recalled- Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken-a character unblemished, to Marianne.
Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza.
Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon.
Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from himself-had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater.
But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself.
Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence.
Marianne slowly continued --
For some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before --" I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change.
I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this- I should have had no confidence, no esteem.
Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.
Marianne sighed, and repeated, " I wish for no change.
Had you married, you must have been always poor.
His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him.
His demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the LESS grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before.
Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word " Selfish?
in a tone that implied --" do you really think him selfish?
It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Barton.
His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.
MY happiness never was his object.
And why does he regret it?Because he finds it has not answered towards himself.
It has not made him happy.
His circumstances are now unembarrassed-he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself.
But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?The inconveniences would have been different.
He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing.
Marianne would not let her proceed- and Elinor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued,
That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents.
Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate.
Her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.
Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.
Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward.
She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode.
She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.
Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication --
Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics.
The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room.
Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.
They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys.
She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts.
She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved.
So, I made free to wish her joy.
Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.
They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here.
Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than to expect them.
She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and was very confident that Edward would never come near them.
She observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.
Thomas's intelligence seemed over.
Elinor looked as if she wished to hear more.
Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.
Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.
When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.
Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation.
She now found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.
She found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be.
Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself.
But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.
That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at first.
But she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay.
They were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's.
What had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!
They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford- Delaford- that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid.
In Edward-she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see- happy or unhappy- nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.
Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars- but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings.
Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend.
They were all thoughtless or indolent.
was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.
I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.
This was gaining something, something to look forward to.
Colonel Brandon must have some information to give.
Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window.
It was a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself.
Now she could hear more; and she trembled in expectation of it.
But-it was NOT Colonel Brandon-neither his air-nor his height.
Were it possible, she must say it must be Edward.
He had just dismounted- she could not be mistaken- it WAS Edward.
She moved away and sat down.
I WILL be calm; I WILL be mistress of myself.
In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake.
She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other.
She would have given the world to be able to speak-and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him- but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
Not a syllable passed aloud.
They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor.
His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.
His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for Elinor.
His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.
Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.
He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply.
Elinor's lips had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too.
But it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather.
When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place.
It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well.
In a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.
Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said,
he replied, with an air of surprise- " No, my mother is in town.
She dared not look up- but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes on him.
He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said-
was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement- and though Elinor could not speak, even HER eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder.
He rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,
His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was.
Elinor could sit it no longer.
She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease.
His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one.
It was only to ask Elinor to marry him- and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told.
His situation indeed was more than commonly joyful.
He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits.
He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness- and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
She was pretty too-at least I thought so THEN; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects.
Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly.
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the Dashwoods, was such-so great-as promised them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night.
Marianne could speak HER happiness only by tears.
Comparisons would occur-regrets would arise- and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor-how are HER feelings to be described?From the moment of learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil.
Between THEM no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time.
She repeated it to Edward.
And Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour.
Other designs might afterward arise.
He put the letter into Elinor's hands.
Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper.
I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices.
Please to destroy my scrawls-but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep.
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment.
The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do.
She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her.
In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him.
He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection.
It was his business, however, to say that he DID, and he said it very prettily.
What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives.
Nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.
And even now, I cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.
She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.
And at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions.
The connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry YOU than be single.
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it.
Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement.
I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and Lucy, I did not know how far I was got.
After that, I suppose, I WAS wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than these:The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but myself.
Elinor smiled, and shook her head.
NOW he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place.
One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one difficulty only was to be overcome.
They were brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain-and they only wanted something to live upon.
Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his mother towards him; and on THAT he rested for the residue of their income.
About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with her than her house would hold.
Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers'first tete-a-tete before breakfast.
Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive.
No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering.
Every thing was explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of Elinor.
It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise.
The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion that mirth.
Not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul!
And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is worse than all.
I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him.
Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn.
Mrs. Ferrars was the most unfortunate of women-poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility-and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder.
Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely worse.
Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence.
This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of Edward.
It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.
Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating.
For many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.
With apprehensive caution therefore it was revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness.
It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.
The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot- could chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep.
Mrs. Jennings's prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the world.
They had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their cows.
They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations and friends.
Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.
But, I confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother.
But though Mrs. Ferrars DID come to see them, and always treated them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her real favour and preference.
THAT was due to the folly of Robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many months had passed away.
When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the view imputed to him by his brother.
He merely meant to persuade her to give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle the matter.
In that point, however, and that only, he erred- for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in TIME, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to produce this conviction.
Some doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's discourse with himself.
His attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed in course.
He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent.
What immediately followed is known.
The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned.
What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to it, might have puzzled them still more.
Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her.
Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had expressed.
It was now her darling object.
Precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor.
They each felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all.
With such a confederacy against her-with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness-with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else-burst on her-what could she do?
Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate.
She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims.
Marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had once been to Willoughby.
That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted- nor that he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret.
But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended on-for he did neither.
He lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself.
His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity.
Buster Bear yawned as he lay on his comfortable bed of leaves and watched the first early morning sunbeams creeping through the Green Forest to chase out the Black Shadows.
Once more he yawned, and slowly got to his feet and shook himself.
Then he walked over to a big pine-tree, stood up on his hind legs, reached as high up on the trunk of the tree as he could, and scratched the bark with his great claws.
After that he yawned until it seemed as if his jaws would crack, and then sat down to think what he wanted for breakfast.
While he sat there, trying to make up his mind what would taste best, he was listening to the sounds that told of the waking of all the little people who live in the Green Forest.
He heard Sammy Jay way off in the distance screaming, " Thief!
Probably he is the thief himself.
He heard Chatterer the Red Squirrel scolding as fast as he could make his tongue go and working himself into a terrible rage.
He heard Blacky the Crow cawing at the top of his lungs, and he knew by the sound that Blacky was getting into mischief of some kind.
He heard the sweet voices of happy little singers, and they were good to hear.
But most of all he listened to a merry, low, silvery laugh that never stopped but went on and on, until he just felt as if he must laugh too.
It was the voice of the Laughing Brook.
And as Buster listened it suddenly came to him just what he wanted for breakfast.
I want some fat trout for my breakfast.
He shuffled along over to the Laughing Brook, and straight to a little pool of which he knew, and as he drew near he took the greatest care not to make the teeniest, weeniest bit of noise.
Now it just happened that early as he was, some one was before Buster Bear.
When he came in sight of the little pool, who should he see but another fisherman there, who had already caught a fine fat trout.
Why, Little Joe Otter to be sure.
He was just climbing up the bank with the fat trout in his mouth.
Buster Bear's own mouth watered as he saw it.
Little Joe sat down on the bank and prepared to enjoy his breakfast.
He hadn't seen Buster Bear, and he didn't know that he or any one else was anywhere near.
Buster Bear tiptoed up very softly until he was right behind Little Joe Otter.
said he in his deepest, most grumbly-rumbly voice.
I wouldn't mind if I had it myself.
Little Joe Otter gave a frightened squeal and without even turning to see who was speaking dropped his fish and dived headfirst into the Laughing Brook.
Buster Bear sprang forward and with one of his big paws caught the fat trout just as it was slipping back into the water.
Otter," said he, as Little Joe put his head out of water to see who had frightened him so.
The fact is, he was afraid to.
He snarled at Buster Bear and called him a thief and everything bad he could think of.
Buster didn't seem to mind.
He chuckled as if he thought it all a great joke and repeated his invitation to Little Joe to come and get his fish.
But Little Joe just turned his back and went off down the Laughing Brook in a great rage.
And while he was wondering, he ate it all up.
Then he started down the Laughing Brook to try to catch some for himself.
Little Joe Otter was in a terrible rage.
It was a bad beginning for a beautiful day and Little Joe knew it.
But who wouldn't be in a rage if his breakfast was taken from him just as he was about to eat it?
Anyway, that is what Little Joe told Billy Mink.
Perhaps he didn't tell it quite exactly as it was, but you know he was very badly frightened at the time.
He took that fat trout away from me and ate it just as if it belonged to him!
If I live long enough I'm going to get even with him!
Of course that wasn't nice talk and anything but a nice spirit, but Little Joe Otter's temper is sometimes pretty short, especially when he is hungry, and this time he had had no breakfast, you know.
Buster Bear hadn't actually taken the fish away from Little Joe.
But looking at the matter as Little Joe did, it amounted to the same thing.
You see, Buster knew perfectly well when he invited Little Joe to come back and get it that Little Joe wouldn't dare do anything of the kind.
I wish he'd fall in and get drowned!
Billy Mink just had to laugh.
The idea of great big Buster Bear getting drowned in the Laughing Brook was too funny.
There wasn't water enough in it anywhere except down in the Smiling Pool, and that was on the Green Meadows, where Buster had never been known to go.
At first Little Joe didn't want to, but at last his curiosity got the better of his fear, and he agreed.
So the two little brown-coated scamps turned down the Laughing Brook, taking the greatest care to keep out of sight themselves.
They had gone only a little way when Billy Mink whispered: " Sh-h!
Sure enough, there was Buster Bear sitting close beside a little pool and looking into it very intently.
asked Little Joe Otter, as Buster Bear sat for the longest time without moving.
Just then one of Buster's big paws went into the water as quick as a flash and scooped out a trout that had ventured too near.
And that is just what Buster Bear was doing, and it was very plain to see that he was having great fun.
When he had eaten the trout he had caught, he moved along to the next little pool.
said Little Joe fiercely.
cried Little Joe, into whose head an idea had just popped.
Then we'll see how many fish he will get!
Just you watch me get even with Buster Bear.
Little Joe slipped swiftly into the water and swam straight to the little pool that Buster Bear would try next.
He frightened the fish so that they fled in every direction.
Then he stirred up the mud until the water was so dirty that Buster couldn't have seen a fish right under his nose.
He did the same thing in the next pool and the next.
Buster Bear's fishing was spoiled for that day.
Buster Bear hadn't enjoyed himself so much since he came to the Green Forest to live.
His fun began when he surprised Little Joe Otter on the bank of a little pool in the Laughing Brook and Little Joe was so frightened that he dropped a fat trout he had just caught.
It had seemed like a great joke to Buster Bear, and he had chuckled over it all the time he was eating the fat trout.
When he had finished it, he started on to do some fishing himself.
Presently he came to another little pool.
He stole up to it very, very softly, so as not to frighten the fish.
Then he sat down close to the edge of it and didn't move.
Buster learned a long time ago that a fisherman must be patient unless, like Little Joe Otter, he is just as much at home in the water as the fish themselves, and can swim fast enough to catch them by chasing them.
So he didn't move so much as an eye lash.
He was so still that he looked almost like the stump of an old tree.
Perhaps that is what the fish thought he was, for pretty soon, two or three swam right in close to where he was sitting.
Now Buster Bear may be big and clumsy looking, but there isn't anything that can move much quicker than one of those big paws of his when he wants it to.
One of them moved now, and quicker than a wink had scooped one of those foolish fish out on to the bank.
Buster's little eyes twinkled, and he smacked his lips as he moved on to the next little pool, for he knew that it was of no use to stay longer at the first one.
The fish were so frightened that they wouldn't come back for a long, long time.
At the next little pool the same thing happened.
By this time Buster Bear was in fine spirits.
It was fun to catch the fish, and it was still more fun to eat them.
What finer breakfast could any one have than fresh-caught trout?
But it takes more than three trout to fill Buster Bear's stomach, so he kept on to the next little pool.
But this little pool, instead of being beautiful and clear so that Buster could see right to the bottom of it and so tell if there were any fish there, was so muddy that he couldn't see into it at all.
It looked as if some one had just stirred up all the mud at the bottom.
I would just waste my time.
So he went on to the next little pool.
He found this just as muddy as the other.
Then he went on to another, and this was no better.
Buster sat down and scratched his head.
Yes, Sir, it was puzzling.
He looked this way and he looked that way suspiciously, but there was no one to be seen.
Everything was still save for the laughter of the Laughing Brook.
Somehow, it seemed to Buster as if the Brook were laughing at him.
It looks as if my fishing is spoiled for to-day.
I don't understand it at all.
It's lucky I caught what I did.
It looks as if somebody is trying to-ha!
A sudden thought had popped into his head.
Then he began to chuckle and finally to laugh.
And then, because Buster Bear always enjoys a good joke even when it is on himself, he laughed until he had to hold his sides, which is a whole lot better than going off in a rage as Little Joe Otter had done.
You're pretty smart, but there are other people who are smart too," said Buster Bear, and still chuckling, he went off to think up a plan to get the best of Little Joe Otter.
Getting even just for spite Doesn't always pay.
Fact is, it is very apt To work the other way.
That is just how it came about that Little Joe Otter furnished Buster Bear with the best breakfast he had had for a long time.
The truth is, he thought all the time that he was preventing Buster Bear from getting a breakfast.
You see he wasn't well enough acquainted with Buster to know that Buster is quite as smart as he is, and perhaps a little bit smarter.
Spite and selfishness were at the bottom of it.
You see Little Joe and Billy Mink had had all the fishing in the Laughing Brook to themselves so long that they thought no one else had any right to fish there.
To be sure Bobby Coon caught a few little fish there, but they didn't mind Bobby.
Farmer Brown's boy fished there too, sometimes, and this always made Little Joe and Billy Mink very angry, but they were so afraid of him that they didn't dare do anything about it.
But when they discovered that Buster Bear was a fisherman, they made up their minds that something had got to be done.
At least, Little Joe did.
I guess that'll teach him to let our fish alone.
So the next morning Little Joe hid before daylight close by the little pool where Buster Bear had given him such a fright.
Sure enough, just as the Jolly Sunbeams began to creep through the Green Forest, he saw Buster Bear coming straight over to the little pool.
Little Joe slipped into the water and chased all the fish out of the little pool, and stirred up the mud on the bottom so that the water was so muddy that the bottom couldn't be seen at all.
Then he hurried down to the next little pool and did the same thing.
Now Buster Bear is very smart.
You know he had guessed the day before who had spoiled his fishing.
So this morning he only went far enough to make sure that if Little Joe were watching for him, as he was sure he would be, he would see him coming.
Then, instead of keeping on to the little pool, he hurried to a place way down the Laughing Brook, where the water was very shallow, hardly over his feet, and there he sat chuckling to himself.
Things happened just as he had expected.
The frightened fish Little Joe chased out of the little pools up above swam down the Laughing Brook, because, you know, Little Joe was behind them, and there was nowhere else for them to go.
When they came to the place where Buster was waiting, all he had to do was to scoop them out on to the bank.
It didn't take Buster long to catch all the fish he could eat.
Then he saved a nice fat trout and waited.
By and by along came Little Joe Otter, chuckling to think how he had spoiled Buster Bear's fishing.
He was so intent on looking behind him to see if Buster was coming that he didn't see Buster waiting there until he spoke.
I hope we'll go fishing together often.
Then he went off laughing fit to kill himself.
Little Joe couldn't find a word to say.
He was so surprised and angry that he went off by himself and sulked.
And Billy Mink, who had been watching, ate the fat trout.
There is nothing quite like common sense to smooth out troubles.
People who have plenty of just plain common sense are often thought to be very wise.
Their neighbors look up to them and are forever running to them for advice, and they are very much respected.
That is the way with Grandfather Frog.
He is very old and very wise.
Anyway, that is what his neighbors think.
The truth is, he simply has a lot of common sense, which after all is the very best kind of wisdom.
Billy Mink stopped long enough to eat the fat fish Buster had left on the bank and then he too went down to the Smiling Pool.
When Little Joe Otter and Billy Mink reached the Smiling Pool, they climbed up on the Big Rock, and there Little Joe sulked and sulked, until finally Grandfather Frog asked what the matter was.
Little Joe wouldn't tell, but Billy Mink told the whole story.
When he told how Buster had been too smart for Little Joe, it tickled him so that Billy had to laugh in spite of himself.
So did Jerry Muskrat, who had been listening.
Of course this made Little Joe angrier than ever.
He said a lot of unkind things about Buster Bear and about Billy Mink and Grandfather Frog and Jerry Muskrat, because they had laughed at the smartness of Buster.
He may be a bully, because great big people are very apt to be bullies, and though I haven't seen him, I guess Buster Bear is big enough from all I have heard, but I don't see how he is a thief," said Grandfather Frog.
He stole _our_ fish, if you like that any better.
That makes him just as much a thief, doesn't it?
Grandfather Frog looked up at jolly, round, bright Mr. Sun and slowly winked one of his great, goggly eyes.
As long as he doesn't, he doesn't belong to any one.
I suppose that if Buster Bear should happen along and catch him, he would be stealing from me, according to Little Joe.
You're getting foolish in your old age," retorted Little Joe.
Little Joe couldn't find a word to say.
Who makes an enemy a friend, To fear and worry puts an end.
Little Joe Otter found that out when he took Grandfather Frog's advice.
He wouldn't have admitted that he was afraid of Buster Bear.
No one ever likes to admit being afraid, least of all Little Joe Otter.
And really Little Joe has a great deal of courage.
Very few of the little people of the Green Forest or the Green Meadows would willingly quarrel with him, for Little Joe is a great fighter when he has to fight.
As for all those who live in or along the Laughing Brook or in the Smiling Pool, they let Little Joe have his own way in everything.
Now having one's own way too much is a bad thing.
It is apt to make one selfish and thoughtless of other people and very hard to get along with.
Little Joe Otter had his way too much.
Grandfather Frog knew it and shook his head very soberly when Little Joe had been disrespectful to him.
It is too bad that such a fine young fellow as Little Joe should spoil a good disposition by such selfish heedlessness.
So, though he didn't let on that it was so, Grandfather Frog really was delighted when he heard how Buster Bear had been too smart for Little Joe Otter.
It tickled him so that he had hard work to keep a straight face.
But he did and was as grave and solemn as you please as he advised Little Joe always to make friends with any one who was bigger and stronger and smarter than he.
That was good common sense advice, but Little Joe just sniffed and went off declaring that he would get even with Buster Bear yet.
It was a little sheepish grin at first, but at last it grew into a laugh.
I'll try it to-morrow morning.
So very early the next morning Little Joe Otter went to the best fishing pool he knew of in the Laughing Brook, and there he caught the biggest trout he could find.
It was so big and fat that it made Little Joe's mouth water, for you know fat trout are his favorite food.
But he didn't take so much as one bite.
Instead he carefully laid it on an old log where Buster Bear would be sure to see it if he should come along that way.
Then he hid near by, where he could watch.
Buster was late that morning.
It seemed to Little Joe that he never would come.
Once he nearly lost the fish.
He had turned his head for just a minute, and when he looked back again, the trout was nowhere to be seen.
Buster couldn't have stolen up and taken it, because such a big fellow couldn't possibly have gotten out of sight again.
Little Joe darted over to the log and looked on the other side.
There was the fat trout, and there also was Little Joe's smallest cousin, Shadow the Weasel, who is a great thief and altogether bad.
Little Joe sprang at him angrily, but Shadow was too quick and darted away.
Little Joe put the fish back on the log and waited.
This time he didn't take his eyes off it.
At last, when he was almost ready to give up, he saw Buster Bear shuffling along towards the Laughing Brook.
Suddenly Buster stopped and sniffed.
One of the Merry Little Breezes had carried the scent of that fat trout over to him.
Then he came straight over to where the fish lay, his nose wrinkling, and his eyes twinkling with pleasure.
Farmer Brown's boy tramped through the Green Forest, whistling merrily.
He always whistles when he feels light-hearted, and he always feels light-hearted when he goes fishing.
You see, he is just as fond of fishing as is Little Joe Otter or Billy Mink or Buster Bear.
And now he was making his way through the Green Forest to the Laughing Brook, sure that by the time he had followed it down to the Smiling Pool he would have a fine lot of trout to take home.
He knew every pool in the Laughing Brook where the trout love to hide, did Farmer Brown's boy, and it was just the kind of a morning when the trout should be hungry.
So he whistled as he tramped along, and his whistle was good to hear.
When he reached the first little pool he baited his hook very carefully and then, taking the greatest care to keep out of sight of any trout that might be in the little pool, he began to fish.
Now Farmer Brown's boy learned a long time ago that to be a successful fisherman one must have a great deal of patience, so though he didn't get a bite right away as he had expected to, he wasn't the least bit discouraged.
He kept very quiet and fished and fished, patiently waiting for a foolish trout to take his hook.
But he didn't get so much as a nibble.
There the same thing happened.
He was very patient, very, very patient, but his patience brought no reward, not so much as the faintest kind of a nibble.
Farmer Brown's boy trudged on to the next pool, and there was a puzzled frown on his freckled face.
Such a thing never had happened before.
He didn't know what to make of it.
All the night before he had dreamed about the delicious dinner of fried trout he would have the next day, and now-well, if he didn't catch some trout pretty soon, that splendid dinner would never be anything but a dream.
There, on the bank beside the little pool, were the heads of three trout.
Farmer Brown's boy scowled down at them more puzzled than ever.
He looked up the Laughing Brook and down the Laughing Brook and this way and that way, but no one was to be seen.
Then he picked up one of the little heads and looked at it sharply.
Thereafter he kept a sharp lookout for signs of Billy Mink, but though he found two or three more trout heads, he saw no other signs and he caught no fish.
This puzzled him more than ever.
It didn't seem possible that such a little fellow as Billy Mink could have caught or frightened all the fish or have eaten so many.
Besides, he didn't remember ever having known Billy to leave heads around that way.
Billy sometimes catches more fish than he can eat, but then he usually hides them.
The farther he went down the Laughing Brook, the more puzzled Farmer Brown's boy grew.
It made him feel very queer.
He would have felt still more queer if he had known that all the time two other fishermen who had been before him were watching him and chuckling to themselves.
They were Little Joe Otter and Buster Bear.
That's a funny thing for hair to do-rise up all of a sudden-isn't it?
But that is just what the hair on Farmer Brown's boy's head did the day he went fishing in the Laughing Brook and had no luck at all.
There are just two things that make hair rise-anger and fear.
Anger sometimes makes the hair on the back and neck of Bowser the Hound and of some other little people bristle and stand up, and you know the hair on the tail of Black Pussy stands on end until her tail looks twice as big as it really is.
Both anger and fear make it do that.
But there is only one thing that can make the hair on the head of Farmer Brown's boy rise, and as it isn't anger, of course it must be fear.
It never had happened before.
You see, there isn't much of anything that Farmer Brown's boy is really afraid of.
Perhaps he wouldn't have been afraid this time if it hadn't been for the surprise of what he found.
Anyway, that is what he said when he told about it afterward.
Why, it was a footprint in the soft mud.
Yes, Sir, that's what it was, and all it was.
But it was the biggest footprint Farmer Brown's boy ever had seen, and it looked as if it had been made only a few minutes before.
It was the footprint of Buster Bear.
Now Farmer Brown's boy didn't know that Buster Bear had come down to the Green Forest to live.
He never had heard of a Bear being in the Green Forest.
And so he was so surprised that he had hard work to believe his own eyes, and he had a queer feeling all over- a little chilly feeling, although it was a warm day.
Somehow, he didn't feel like meeting Buster Bear.
If he had had his terrible gun with him, it might have been different.
But he didn't, and so he suddenly made up his mind that he didn't want to fish any more that day.
He had a funny feeling, too, that he was being watched, although he couldn't see any one.
Little Joe Otter and Buster Bear were watching him and taking the greatest care to keep out of his sight.
All the way home through the Green Forest, Farmer Brown's boy kept looking behind him, and he didn't draw a long breath until he reached the edge of the Green Forest.
He hadn't run, but he had wanted to.
said Buster Bear to Little Joe Otter, " I believe he was afraid!
And Buster Bear was just exactly right.
Little Joe Otter was fairly bursting with excitement.
He could hardly contain himself.
He felt that he had the greatest news to tell since Peter Rabbit had first found the tracks of Buster Bear in the Green Forest.
He couldn't keep it to himself a minute longer than he had to.
So he hurried to the Smiling Pool, where he was sure he would find Billy Mink and Jerry Muskrat and Grandfather Frog and Spotty the Turtle, and he hoped that perhaps some of the little people who live in the Green Forest might be there too.
Sure enough, Peter Rabbit was there on one side of the Smiling Pool, making faces at Reddy Fox, who was on the other side, which, of course, was not at all nice of Peter.
Mr. and Mrs. Redwing were there, and Blacky the Crow was sitting in the Big Hickory-tree.
Little Joe Otter swam straight to the Big Rock and climbed up to the very highest part.
He looked so excited, and his eyes sparkled so, that every one knew right away that something had happened.
It must be that for once he has been smarter than Buster Bear.
Little Joe made a good-natured face at Billy Mink and shook his head.
I don't believe anybody can be smarter than Buster Bear.
Reddy Fox rolled his lips back in an unpleasant grin.
Reddy glared across the Smiling Pool at Peter.
said Grandfather Frog in his deepest, gruffest voice.
What we want to know is what Little Joe Otter has got on his mind.
Little Joe Otter looked around at all the eager faces watching him, and then in the slowest, most provoking way, he drawled: " Farmer Brown's boy is afraid of Buster Bear.
For a minute no one said a word.
Then Blacky the Crow leaned down from his perch in the Big Hickory-tree and looked very hard at Little Joe as he said:
I don't believe a word of it.
Farmer Brown's boy isn't afraid of any one who lives in the Green Forest or on the Green Meadows or in the Smiling Pool, and you know it.
We are all afraid of him.
Little Joe glared back at Blacky.
Then he told how early that very morning he and Buster Bear had been fishing together in the Laughing Brook, and how Farmer Brown's boy had been fishing there too, and hadn't caught a single trout because they had all been caught or frightened before he got there.
Then he told how Farmer Brown's boy had found a footprint of Buster Bear in the soft mud, and how he had stopped fishing right away and started for home, looking behind him with fear in his eyes all the way.
Now we'll get even with _him_!
The news that Little Joe Otter told at the Smiling Pool- how Farmer Brown's boy had run away from Buster Bear without even seeing him- soon spread all over the Green Meadows and through the Green Forest, until every one who lives there knew about it.
Of course, Peter Rabbit helped spread it.
But everybody else helped too.
You see, they had all been afraid of Farmer Brown's boy for so long that they were tickled almost to pieces at the very thought of having some one in the Green Forest who could make Farmer Brown's boy feel fear as they had felt it.
And so it was that Buster Bear became a hero right away to most of them.
A few doubted Little Joe's story.
One of them was Blacky the Crow.
Blacky doubted because he knew Farmer Brown's boy so well that he couldn't imagine him afraid.
Reddy doubted because he didn't want to believe.
You see, he was jealous of Buster Bear, and at the same time he was afraid of him.
So Reddy pretended not to believe a word of what Little Joe Otter had said, and he agreed with Blacky that only by seeing Farmer Brown's boy afraid could he ever be made to believe it.
But nearly everybody else believed it, and there was great rejoicing.
Most of them were afraid of Buster, very much afraid of him, because he was so big and strong.
But they were still more afraid of Farmer Brown's boy, because they didn't know him or understand him, and because in the past he had tried to catch some of them in traps and had hunted some of them with his terrible gun.
So now they were very proud to think that one of their own number actually had frightened him, and they began to look on Buster Bear as a real hero.
They tried in ever so many ways to show him how friendly they felt and went quite out of their way to do him favors.
Whenever they met one another, all they could talk about was the smartness and the greatness of Buster Bear.
It would be a favor to me which Ah cert'nly would appreciate," said Unc'Billy Possum when he heard the news.
broke in Blacky the Crow.
snapped Little Joe Otter.
Of course no one doubts your word," replied Blacky, with the utmost politeness.
Perhaps he didn't know whose it was, and if he had he wouldn't have been afraid.
Now I've got a plan by which we can see for ourselves if he really is afraid of Buster Bear.
Blacky the Crow shook his head and winked.
If you meet me at the Big Hickory-tree at sun-up to-morrow morning, and get everybody else to come that you can, perhaps I will tell you.
His voice is strong; When things go wrong Blacky is a screamer!
Blacky the Crow is forever dreaming and scheming and almost always it is of mischief.
He is one of the smartest and cleverest of all the little people of the Green Meadows and the Green Forest, and all the others know it.
He wants something going on.
The more exciting it is, the better he likes it.
Then he has a chance to use that harsh voice of his, and how he does use it!
So now, as he sat in the top of the Big Hickory-tree beside the Smiling Pool and looked down on all the little people gathered there, he was very happy.
In the first place he felt very important, and you know Blacky dearly loves to feel important.
They had all come at his invitation to listen to a plan for seeing for themselves if it were really true that Farmer Brown's boy was afraid of Buster Bear.
On the Big Rock in the Smiling Pool sat Little Joe Otter, Billy Mink, and Jerry Muskrat.
On his big, green lily-pad sat Grandfather Frog.
On another lily-pad sat Spotty the Turtle.
On the bank on one side of the Smiling Pool were Peter Rabbit, Jumper the Hare, Danny Meadow Mouse, Johnny Chuck, Jimmy Skunk, Unc'Billy Possum, Striped Chipmunk and Old Mr. Toad.
On the other side of the Smiling Pool were Reddy Fox, Digger the Badger, and Bobby Coon.
In the Big Hickory-tree were Chatterer the Red Squirrel, Happy Jack the Gray Squirrel, and Sammy Jay.
Blacky waited until he was sure that no one else was coming.
Then he cleared his throat very loudly and began to speak.
Everybody grinned, for Blacky has played so many sharp tricks that no one is really his friend unless it is that other mischief-maker, Sammy Jay, who, you know, is Blacky's cousin.
But no one said anything, and Blacky went on.
Perhaps he was, and then again perhaps he wasn't.
Perhaps he had something else on his mind.
You have made a hero of Buster Bear, because you believe Little Joe's story.
Now I don't say that I don't believe it, but I do say that I will be a lot more sure that Farmer Brown's boy is afraid of Buster when I see him run away myself.
Farmer Brown's boy has a lot of curiosity, and he will be sure to come over to see what it is all about.
Then we will lead him to where Buster Bear is.
If he runs away, I will be the first to admit that Buster Bear is as great a hero as some of you seem to think he is.
It is a very simple plan, and if you will all hide where you can watch, you will be able to see for yourselves if Little Joe Otter is right.
Right away everybody began to talk at the same time.
It was such a simple plan that everybody agreed to it.
And it promised to be so exciting that everybody promised to be there, that is, everybody but Grandfather Frog and Spotty the Turtle, who didn't care to go so far away from the Smiling Pool.
So it was agreed that Blacky should try his plan the very next morning.
Ever since it was light enough to see at all, Blacky the Crow had been sitting in the top of the tallest tree on the edge of the Green Forest nearest to Farmer Brown's house, and never for an instant had he taken his eyes from Farmer Brown's back door.
What was he watching for?
Why, for Farmer Brown's boy to come out on his way to milk the cows.
Meanwhile, Sammy Jay was slipping silently through the Green Forest, looking for Buster Bear, so that when the time came he could let his cousin, Blacky the Crow, know just where Buster was.
By and by the back door of Farmer Brown's house opened, and out stepped Farmer Brown's boy.
In each hand he carried a milk pail.
Right away Blacky began to scream at the top of his lungs.
And all the time he flew about among the trees near the edge of the Green Forest as if so excited that he couldn't keep still.
Farmer Brown's boy looked over there as if he wondered what all that fuss was about, as indeed he did, but he didn't start to go over and see.
No, Sir, he started straight for the barn.
Blacky didn't know what to make of it.
You see, smart as he is and shrewd as he is, Blacky doesn't know anything about the meaning of duty, for he never has to work excepting to get enough to eat.
So, when Farmer Brown's boy started for the barn instead of for the Green Forest, Blacky didn't know what to make of it.
He screamed harder and louder than ever, until his voice grew so hoarse he couldn't scream any more, but Farmer Brown's boy kept right on to the barn.
Now all this time the other little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows had been hiding where they could see all that went on.
When Farmer Brown's boy disappeared in the barn, Chatterer the Red Squirrel snickered right out loud.
This is a great plan of yours, Blacky!
Blacky couldn't find a word to say.
He just hung his head, which is something Blacky seldom does.
So it was decided to wait.
It seemed as if Farmer Brown's boy never would come out, but at last he did.
Blacky and Sammy Jay at once began to scream and make all the fuss they could.
Farmer Brown's boy took the two pails of milk into the house, then out he came and started straight for the Green Forest.
He was so curious to know what it all meant that he couldn't wait another minute.
Now there was some one else with a great deal of curiosity also.
He had heard the screaming of Blacky the Crow and Sammy Jay, and he had listened until he couldn't stand it another minute.
He just _had_ to know what it was all about.
So at the same time Farmer Brown's boy started for the Green Forest, this other listener started towards the place where Blacky and Sammy were making such a racket.
He walked very softly so as not to make a sound.
If you should meet with Buster Bear While walking through the wood, What would you do?
Now tell me true, _I'd_ run the best I could.
That is what Farmer Brown's boy did when he met Buster Bear, and a lot of the little people of the Green Forest and some from the Green Meadows saw him.
Farmer Brown had laughed and laughed.
If you want to find Mr. Bear, you will have to go to the Great Woods.
I don't know who made that footprint, but it certainly couldn't have been a Bear.
I think you must have imagined it.
Then he had laughed some more, all of which goes to show how easy it is to be mistaken, and how foolish it is to laugh at things you really don't know about.
Buster Bear _had_ come to live in the Green Forest, and Farmer Brown's boy _had_ seen his footprint.
But Farmer Brown laughed so much and made fun of him so much, that at last his boy began to think that he must have been mistaken after all.
So when he heard Blacky the Crow and Sammy Jay making a great fuss near the edge of the Green Forest, he never once thought of Buster Bear, as he started over to see what was going on.
When Blacky and Sammy saw him coming, they moved a little farther in to the Green Forest, still screaming in the most excited way.
They felt sure that Farmer Brown's boy would follow them, and they meant to lead him to where Sammy had seen Buster Bear that morning.
Then they would find out for sure if what Little Joe Otter had said was true- that Farmer Brown's boy really was afraid of Buster Bear.
Now all around, behind trees and stumps, and under thick branches, and even in tree tops, were other little people watching with round, wide-open eyes to see what would happen.
It was very exciting, the most exciting thing they could remember.
You see, they had come to believe that Farmer Brown's boy wasn't afraid of anybody or anything, and as most of them were very much afraid of him, they had hard work to believe that he would really be afraid of even such a great, big, strong fellow as Buster Bear.
Every one was so busy watching Farmer Brown's boy that no one saw Buster coming from the other direction.
You see, Buster walked very softly.
Big as he is, he can walk without making the teeniest, weeniest sound.
And that is how it happened that no one saw him or heard him until just as Farmer Brown's boy stepped out from behind one side of a thick little hemlock-tree, Buster Bear stepped out from behind the other side of that same little tree, and there they were face to face!
Then everybody held their breath, even Blacky the Crow and Sammy Jay.
For just a little minute it was so still there in the Green Forest that not the least little sound could be heard.
What was going to happen?
Blacky the Crow and Sammy Jay, looking down from the top of a tall tree, held their breath.
Happy Jack the Gray Squirrel and his cousin, Chatterer the Red Squirrel, looking down from another tree, held _their_ breath.
Unc'Billy Possum, sticking his head out from a hollow tree, held _his_ breath.
Bobby Coon, looking through a hole in a hollow stump in which he was hiding, held _his_ breath.
Reddy Fox, lying flat down behind a heap of brush, held _his_ breath.
Peter Rabbit, sitting bolt upright under a thick hemlock branch, with eyes and ears wide open, held _his_ breath.
And all the other little people who happened to be where they could see did the same thing.
You see, it was the most exciting moment ever was in the Green Forest.
Farmer Brown's boy had just stepped out from behind one side of a little hemlock-tree and Buster Bear had just stepped out from behind the opposite side of the little hemlock-tree and neither had known that the other was anywhere near.
For a whole minute they stood there face to face, gazing into each other's eyes, while everybody watched and waited, and it seemed as if the whole Green Forest was holding its breath.
Yes, Sir, something happened.
Farmer Brown's boy opened his mouth and yelled!
It was such a sudden yell and such a loud yell that it startled Chatterer so that he nearly fell from his place in the tree, and it made Reddy Fox jump to his feet ready to run.
And that yell was a yell of fright.
There was no doubt about it, for with the yell Farmer Brown's boy turned and ran for home, as no one ever had seen him run before.
He ran just as Peter Rabbit runs when he has got to reach the dear Old Briar-patch before Reddy Fox can catch him, which, you know, is as fast as he can run.
Once he stumbled and fell, but he scrambled to his feet in a twinkling, and away he went without once turning his head to see if Buster Bear was after him.
There wasn't any doubt that he was afraid, very much afraid.
Everybody leaned forward to watch him.
Didn't I say that he was afraid of Buster Bear?
cried Little Joe Otter, dancing about with excitement.
I'm sorry that I doubted it.
shrieked Blacky the Crow.
For a minute or two everybody forgot about Buster Bear.
Then there was a great crash which made everybody turn to look the other way.
What do you think they saw?
Why, Buster Bear was running away too, and he was running twice as fast as Farmer Brown's boy!
He bumped into trees and crashed through bushes and jumped over logs, and in almost no time at all he was out of sight.
Altogether it was the most surprising thing that the little people of the Green Forest ever had seen.
Then Little Joe gave a funny little gasp.
said he, " I believe Buster Bear is afraid too!
Unc'Billy Possum chuckled.
If Brer Bear isn't scared, he must have remembered something impo'tant and has gone to attend to it in a powerful hurry.
Then everybody began to laugh.
A fallen hero is some one to whom every one has looked up as very brave and then proves to be less brave than he was supposed to be.
That was the way with Buster Bear.
When Little Joe Otter had told how Farmer Brown's boy had been afraid at the mere sight of one of Buster Bear's big footprints, they had at once made a hero of Buster.
At least some of them had.
As this was the first time, the very first time, that they had ever known any one who lives in the Green Forest to make Farmer Brown's boy run away, they looked on Buster Bear with a great deal of respect and were very proud of him.
But now they had seen Buster Bear and Farmer Brown's boy meet face to face; and while it was true that Farmer Brown's boy had run away as fast as ever he could, it was also true that Buster Bear had done the same thing.
He had run even faster than Farmer Brown's boy, and had hidden in the most lonely place he could find in the very deepest part of the Green Forest.
It was hard to believe, but it was true.
And right away everybody lost a great deal of the respect for Buster which they had felt.
They began to say unkind things about him.
They said them among themselves, and some of them even said them to Buster when they met him, or said them so that he would hear them.
Of course Blacky the Crow and Sammy Jay, who, because they can fly, have nothing to fear from Buster, and who always delight in making other people uncomfortable, never let a chance go by to tell Buster and everybody else within hearing what they thought of him.
They delighted in flying about through the Green Forest until they had found Buster Bear and then from the safety of the tree tops screaming at him.
A dozen times a day Buster would hear them screaming this.
He would grind his teeth and glare up at them, but that was all he could do.
He just had to stand it and do nothing.
But when impudent little Chatterer the Red Squirrel shouted the same thing from a place just out of reach in a big pine-tree, Buster could stand it no longer.
He gave a deep, angry growl that made little shivers run over Chatterer, and then suddenly he started up that tree after Chatterer.
With a frightened little shriek Chatterer scampered to the top of the tree.
He hadn't known that Buster could climb.
But Buster is a splendid climber, especially when the tree is big and stout as this one was, and now he went up after Chatterer, growling angrily.
How Chatterer did wish that he had kept his tongue still!
He ran to the very top of the tree, so frightened that his teeth chattered, and when he looked down and saw Buster's great mouth coming nearer and nearer, he nearly tumbled down with terror.
The worst of it was there wasn't another tree near enough for him to jump to.
He was in trouble this time, was Chatterer, sure enough!
And there was no one to help him.
It isn't very often that Chatterer the Red Squirrel knows fear.
That is one reason that he is so often impudent and saucy.
But once in a while a great fear takes possession of him, as when he knows that Shadow the Weasel is looking for him.
You see, he knows that Shadow can go wherever he can go.
There are very few of the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows who do not know fear at some time or other, but it comes to Chatterer as seldom as to any one, because he is very sure of himself and his ability to hide or run away from danger.
If only he had kept his tongue still instead of saying hateful things to Buster Bear!
If only he had known that Buster could climb a tree!
If only he had chosen a tree near enough to other trees for him to jump across!
But he _had_ said hateful things, he _had_ chosen to sit in a tree which stood quite by itself, and Buster Bear _could_ climb!
Chatterer was in the worst kind of trouble, and there was no one to blame but himself.
That is usually the case with those who get into trouble.
Nearer and nearer came Buster Bear, and deeper and angrier sounded his voice.
Chatterer gave a little frightened gasp and looked this way and looked that way.
The ground seemed a terrible distance below.
If only he had wings like Sammy Jay!
I'll teach you to treat your betters with respect!
I'll swallow you whole, that's what I'll do.
I'll eat you all up to the last hair on your tail!
growled Buster, scrambling a little nearer.
cried Chatterer, and ran out to the very tip of the little branch to which he had been clinging.
Now if Chatterer had only known it, Buster Bear couldn't reach him way up there, because the tree was too small at the top for such a big fellow as Buster.
But Chatterer didn't think of that.
He gave one more frightened look down at those big teeth, then he shut his eyes and jumped-jumped straight out for the far-away ground.
It was a long, long, long way down to the ground, and it certainly looked as if such a little fellow as Chatterer must be killed.
But Chatterer had learned from Old Mother Nature that she had given him certain things to help him at just such times, and one of them is the power to spread himself very flat.
He spread his arms and legs out just as far as he could, and that kept him from falling as fast and as hard as he otherwise would have done, because being spread out so flat that way, the air held him up a little.
And then there was his tail, that funny little tail he is so fond of jerking when he scolds.
It helped him keep his balance and keep from turning over and over.
Down, down, down he sailed and landed on his feet.
Of course, he hit the ground pretty hard, and for just a second he quite lost his breath.
But it was only for a second, and then he was scurrying off as fast as a frightened Squirrel could.
Buster Bear watched him and grinned.
Buster Bear is a great hand to talk to himself when he thinks no one is around to overhear.
However, it isn't a bad habit unless it is carried too far.
Any habit becomes bad, if it is carried too far.
Suppose you had a secret, a real secret, something that nobody else knew and that you didn't want anybody else to know.
And suppose you had the habit of talking to yourself.
You might, without thinking, you know, tell that secret out loud to yourself, and some one might, just might happen to overhear!
Then there wouldn't be any secret.
That is the way that a habit which isn't bad in itself can become bad when it is carried too far.
Now Buster Bear had lived by himself in the Great Woods so long that this habit of talking to himself had grown and grown.
He did it just to keep from being lonesome.
Of course, when he came down to the Green Forest to live, he brought all his habits with him.
That is one thing about habits- you always take them with you wherever you go.
So Buster brought this habit of talking to himself down to the Green Forest, where he had many more neighbors than he had in the Great Woods.
said Buster in his deep, grumbly-rumbly voice.
Yes, Sir, I need a change.
There is something I ought to have at this time of year, and I haven't got it.
There is something that I used to have and don't have now.
It must be about berry time now, and I'd forgotten all about it.
My, my, my, how good some berries would taste!
Now if I were back up there in the Great Woods I could have all I could eat.
Makes my mouth water just to think of it.
There ought to be some up in the Old Pasture.
There ought to be a lot of'em up there.
If I wasn't afraid that some one would see me, I'd go up there.
The more he thought about those berries he felt sure were growing in the Old Pasture, the more he wanted some.
It seemed to him that never in all his life had he wanted berries as he did now.
He wandered about uneasily.
He was hungry-hungry for berries and nothing else.
By and by he began talking to himself again.
Seems as if I could taste those berries.
He licked his lips hungrily as he spoke.
Then his face brightened.
I'll go up there at the very first peep of day to-morrow.
I can eat all I want and get back to the Green Forest before there is any danger that Farmer Brown's boy or any one else I'm afraid of will see me.
That's just what I'll do.
My, I wish to-morrow morning would hurry up and come.
Now though Buster didn't know it, some one had been listening, and that some one was none other than Sammy Jay.
When at last Buster lay down for a nap, Sammy flew away, chuckling to himself.
Sammy was on the lookout very early the next morning.
The first Jolly Little Sunbeams had only reached the Green Meadows and had not started to creep into the Green Forest, when he saw a big, dark form steal out of the Green Forest where it joins the Old Pasture.
It moved very swiftly and silently, as if in a great hurry.
Sammy knew who it was: it was Buster Bear, and he was going berrying.
Sammy waited a little until he could see better.
Then he too started for the Old Pasture.
Isn't it funny how two people will often think of the same thing at the same time, and neither one know that the other is thinking of it?
That is just what happened the day that Buster Bear first thought of going berrying.
While he was walking around in the Green Forest, talking to himself about how hungry he was for some berries and how sure he was that there must be some up in the Old Pasture, some one else was thinking about berries and about the Old Pasture too.
asked Farmer Brown's boy of his mother.
Of course Mrs. Brown promised that she would, and so that night Farmer Brown's boy went to bed very early that he might get up early in the morning, and all night long he dreamed of berries and berry pies.
He was awake even before jolly, round, red Mr. Sun thought it was time to get up, and he was all ready to start for the Old Pasture when the first Jolly Little Sunbeams came dancing across the Green Meadows.
He carried a big tin pail, and in the bottom of it, wrapped up in a piece of paper, was a lunch, for he meant to stay until he filled that pail, if it took all day.
Now the Old Pasture is very large.
It lies at the foot of the Big Mountain, and even extends a little way up on the Big Mountain.
There is room in it for many people to pick berries all day without even seeing each other, unless they roam about a great deal.
You see, the bushes grow very thick there, and you cannot see very far in any direction.
Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun had climbed a little way up in the sky by the time Farmer Brown's boy reached the Old Pasture, and was smiling down on all the Great World, and all the Great World seemed to be smiling back.
Farmer Brown's boy started to whistle, and then he stopped.
You see, Farmer Brown's boy was just beginning to understand something that Peter Rabbit and the other little people of the Green Meadows and the Green Forest learned almost as soon as they learned to walk- that if you don't want to be seen, you mustn't be heard.
So he didn't whistle as he felt like doing, and he tried not to make a bit of noise as he followed an old cow-path towards a place where he knew the berries grew thick and oh, so big, and all the time he kept his eyes wide open, and he kept his ears open too.
That is how he happened to hear a little cry, a very faint little cry.
If he had been whistling, he wouldn't have heard it at all.
He never had heard a cry just like it before.
At first he couldn't make out just what it was or where it came from.
But one thing he was sure of, and that was that it was a cry of fright.
He stood perfectly still and listened with all his might.
There it was again --" Help!
Help "and it was very faint and sounded terribly frightened.
He waited a minute or two, but heard nothing more.
Then he put down his pail and began a hurried look here, there, and everywhere.
Well, I don't like to tell you, but he was trying to swallow one of the children of Stickytoes the Tree Toad.
Of course Farmer Brown's Boy didn't let him.
He made little Mr. Gartersnake set Master Stickytoes free and held Mr. Gartersnake until Master Stickytoes was safely out of reach.
Buster Bear was having the finest time he had had since he came down from the Great Woods to live in the Green Forest.
To be sure, he wasn't in the Green Forest now, but he wasn't far from it.
He was in the Old Pasture, one edge of which touches one edge of the Green Forest.
And where do you think he was, in the Old Pasture?
Why, right in the middle of the biggest patch of the biggest blueberries he ever had seen in all his life!
Now if there is any one thing that Buster Bear had rather have above another, it is all the berries he can eat, unless it be honey.
Nothing can quite equal honey in Buster's mind.
But next to honey give him berries.
He isn't particular what kind of berries.
Raspberries, blackberries, or blueberries, either kind, will make him perfectly happy.
he mumbled in his deep grumbly-rumbly voice, as he sat on his haunches stripping off the berries greedily.
His little eyes twinkled with enjoyment, and he didn't mind at all if now and then he got leaves, and some green berries in his mouth with the big ripe berries.
He didn't try to get them out.
He just chomped them all up together and patted his stomach from sheer delight.
Now Buster had reached the Old Pasture just as jolly, round, red Mr. Sun had crept out of bed, and he had fully made up his mind that he would be back in the Green Forest before Mr. Sun had climbed very far up in the blue, blue sky.
You see, big as he is and strong as he is, Buster Bear is very shy and bashful, and he has no desire to meet Farmer Brown, or Farmer Brown's boy, or any other of those two-legged creatures called men.
It seems funny but he actually is afraid of them.
And he had a feeling that he was a great deal more likely to meet one of them in the Old Pasture than deep in the Green Forest.
So when he started to look for berries, he made up his mind that he would eat what he could in a great hurry and get back to the Green Forest before Farmer Brown's boy was more than out of bed.
But when he found those berries he was so hungry that he forgot his fears and everything else.
They tasted so good that he just had to eat and eat and eat.
Now you know that Buster is a very big fellow, and it takes a lot to fill him up.
He kept eating and eating and eating, and the more he ate the more he wanted.
So he wandered from one patch of berries to another in the Old Pasture, and never once thought of the time.
Somehow, time is the hardest thing in the world to remember, when you are having a good time.
Jolly, round, red Mr. Sun climbed higher and higher in the blue, blue sky.
He looked down on all the Great World and saw all that was going on.
He saw Buster Bear in the Old Pasture, and smiled as he saw what a perfectly glorious time Buster was having.
And he saw something else in the Old Pasture that made his smile still broader.
And then he gave a little gasp of surprise and delight.
Right in front of him was a shiny thing just full of the finest, biggest, bluest berries!
There were no leaves or green ones there.
Buster blinked his greedy little eyes rapidly and looked again.
They were real berries, and all he had got to do was to help himself.
Buster looked sharply at the shiny thing that held the berries.
It seemed perfectly harmless.
He reached out a big paw and pushed it gently.
It tipped over and spilled out a lot of the berries.
Yes, it was perfectly harmless.
Buster gave a little sigh of pure happiness.
He would eat those berries to the last one, and then he would go home to the Green Forest.
The question is, did Buster Bear steal Farmer Brown's boy's pail?
To steal is to take something which belongs to some one else.
There is no doubt that he stole the berries that were in the pail when he found it, for he deliberately ate them.
He knew well enough that some one must have picked them-for whoever heard of blueberries growing in tin pails?
So there is no doubt that when Buster took them, he stole them.
But with the pail it was different.
He took the pail, but he didn't mean to take it.
In fact, he didn't want that pail at all.
You see it was this way: When Buster found that big tin pail brimming full of delicious berries in the shade of that big bush in the Old Pasture, he didn't stop to think whether or not he had a right to them.
Buster is so fond of berries that from the very second that his greedy little eyes saw that pailful, he forgot everything but the feast that was waiting for him right under his very nose.
He didn't think anything about the right or wrong of helping himself.
There before him were more berries than he had ever seen together at one time in all his life, and all he had to do was to eat and eat and eat.
And that is just what he did do.
Of course he upset the pail, but he didn't mind a little thing like that.
When he had gobbled up all the berries that rolled out, he thrust his nose into the pail to get all that were left in it.
Just then he heard a little noise, as if some one were coming.
He threw up his head to listen, and somehow, he never did know just how, the handle of the pail slipped back over his ears and caught there.
This was bad enough, but to make matters worse, just at that very minute he heard a shrill, angry voice shout, " Hi, there!
He didn't need to be told whose voice that was.
It was the voice of Farmer Brown's boy.
Right then and there Buster Bear nearly had a fit.
There was that awful pail fast over his head so that he couldn't see a thing.
Of course, that meant that he couldn't run away, which was the thing of all things he most wanted to do, for big as he is and strong as he is, Buster is very shy and bashful when human beings are around.
He growled and whined and squealed.
He tried to back out of the pail and couldn't.
He tried to shake it off and couldn't.
He tried to pull it off, but somehow he couldn't get hold of it.
Then there was another yell.
If Buster hadn't been so frightened himself, he might have recognized that second yell as one of fright, for that is what it was.
You see Farmer Brown's boy had just discovered Buster Bear.
When he had yelled the first time, he had supposed that it was one of the young cattle who live in the Old Pasture all summer, but when he saw Buster, he was just as badly frightened as Buster himself.
In fact, he was too surprised and frightened even to run.
After that second yell he just stood still and stared.
Buster clawed at that awful thing on his head more frantically than ever.
Suddenly it slipped off, so that he could see.
He gave one frightened look at Farmer Brown's boy, and then with a mighty " Woof!
he started for the Green Forest as fast as his legs could take him, and this was very fast indeed, let me tell you.
He didn't stop to pick out a path, but just crashed through the bushes as if they were nothing at all, just nothing at all.
But the funniest thing of all is this-he took that pail with him!
Yes, Sir, Buster Bear ran away with the big tin pail of Farmer Brown's boy!
You see when it slipped off his head, the handle was still around his neck, and there he was running away with a pail hanging from his neck!
He would have given anything to get rid of it.
But he took it because he couldn't help it.
And that brings us back to the question, did Buster steal Farmer Brown's boy's pail?
Sammy Jay was screaming at the top of his lungs, as he followed Buster Bear across the Old Pasture towards the Green Forest.
Never had he screamed so loud, and never had his voice sounded so excited.
The little people of the Green Forest, the Green Meadows, and the Smiling Pool are so used to hearing Sammy cry thief that usually they think very little about it.
But every blessed one who heard Sammy this morning stopped whatever he was doing and pricked up his ears to listen.
Sammy's cousin, Blacky the Crow, just happened to be flying along the edge of the Old Pasture, and the minute he heard Sammy's voice, he turned and flew over to see what it was all about.
Just as soon as he caught sight of Buster Bear running for the Green Forest as hard as ever he could, he understood what had excited Sammy so.
He was so surprised that he almost forgot to keep his wings moving.
Buster Bear had what looked to Blacky very much like a tin pail hanging from his neck!
No wonder Sammy was excited.
Blacky beat his wings fiercely and started after Sammy.
And so they reached the edge of the Green Forest, Buster Bear running as hard as ever he could, Sammy Jay flying just behind him and screaming, " Thief, thief, thief!
at the top of his lungs, and behind him Blacky the Crow, trying to catch up and yelling as loud as he could, " Caw, caw, caw!
It was bad enough to be frightened almost to death as he had been up in the Old Pasture when the pail had caught over his head just as Farmer Brown's boy had yelled at him.
Then to have the handle of the pail slip down around his neck so that he couldn't get rid of the pail but had to take it with him as he ran, was making a bad matter worse.
Now to have all his neighbors of the Green Forest see him in such a fix and make fun of him, was more than he could stand.
That is just another way of saying shamed.
Yes, Sir, Buster felt that he was shamed in the eyes of his neighbors, and he wanted nothing so much as to get away by himself, where no one could see him, and try to get rid of that dreadful pail.
But Buster is so big that it is not easy for him to find a hiding place.
So, when he reached the Green Forest, he kept right on to the deepest, darkest, most lonesome part and crept under the thickest hemlock-tree he could find.
The sharp eyes of Sammy Jay and Blacky the Crow saw him.
They actually flew into the very tree under which he was hiding, and how they did scream!
Pretty soon Ol'Mistah Buzzard came dropping down out of the blue, blue sky and took a seat on a convenient dead tree, where he could see all that went on.
Ol'Mistah Buzzard began to grin as soon as he saw that tin pail on Buster's neck.
Then came others- Redtail the Hawk, Scrapper the Kingbird, Redwing the Blackbird, Drummer the Woodpecker, Welcome Robin, Tommy Tit the Chickadee, Jenny Wren, Redeye the Vireo, and ever so many more.
They came from the Old Orchard, the Green Meadows, and even down by the Smiling Pool, for the voices of Sammy Jay and Blacky the Crow carried far, and at the sound of them everybody hurried over, sure that something exciting was going on.
Presently Buster heard light footsteps, and peeping out, he saw Billy Mink and Peter Rabbit and Jumper the Hare and Prickly Porky and Reddy Fox and Jimmy Skunk.
Even timid little Whitefoot the Wood Mouse was where he could peer out and see without being seen.
Of course, Chatterer the Red Squirrel and Happy Jack the Gray Squirrel were there.
There they all sat in a great circle around him, each where he felt safe, but where he could see, and every one of them laughing and making fun of Buster.
screamed Sammy until his throat was sore.
The worst of it was Buster knew that everybody knew that it was true.
That awful pail was proof of it.
A temper is a bad, bad thing When once it gets away.
There's nothing quite at all like it To spoil a pleasant day.
Buster Bear was in a terrible temper.
Yes, Sir, Buster Bear was having the worst fit of temper ever seen in the Green Forest.
And the worst part of it all was that all his neighbors of the Green Forest and a whole lot from the Green Meadows and the Smiling Pool were also there to see it.
It is bad enough to give way to temper when you are all alone, and there is no one to watch you, but when you let temper get the best of you right where others see you, oh, dear, dear, it certainly is a sorry sight.
Now ordinarily Buster is one of the most good-natured persons in the world.
It takes a great deal to rouse his temper.
He isn't one tenth so quick tempered as Chatterer the Red Squirrel, or Sammy Jay, or Reddy Fox.
But when his temper is aroused and gets away from him, then watch out!
It seemed to Buster that he had had all that he could stand that day and a little more.
First had come the fright back there in the Old Pasture.
Then the pail had slipped down behind his ears and held fast, so he had run all the way to the Green Forest with it hanging about his neck.
This was bad enough, for he knew just how funny he must look, and besides, it was very uncomfortable.
But to have Sammy Jay call everybody within hearing to come and see him was more than he could stand.
It seemed to Buster as if everybody who lives in the Green Forest, on the Green Meadows, or around the Smiling Brook, was sitting around his hiding place, laughing and making fun of him.
It was more than any self-respecting Bear could stand.
With a roar of anger Buster Bear charged out of his hiding place.
He rushed this way and that way!
He roared with all his might!
He was very terrible to see.
Those who could fly, flew.
Those who could climb, climbed.
And those who were swift of foot, ran.
A few who could neither fly nor climb nor run fast, hid and lay shaking and trembling for fear that Buster would find them.
In less time than it takes to tell about it, Buster was alone.
At least, he couldn't see any one.
Those who could climb, climbed.
Then he vented his temper on the tin pail.
He cuffed at it and pulled at it, all the time growling angrily.
He lay down and clawed at it with his hind feet.
At last the handle broke, and he was free!
Then he jumped on the helpless pail.
With a blow of a big paw he sent it clattering against a tree.
Then he once more fell to knocking it this way and that way, until it was pounded flat, and no one would ever have guessed that it had once been a pail.
Then, and not till then, did Buster recover his usual good nature.
Little by little, as he thought it all over, a look of shame crept into his face.
I ought to have known enough to keep my head out of it," he said slowly and thoughtfully.
Buster Bear looked up and grinned, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.
screamed Sammy, and flew away.
When things go wrong in spite of you To smile's the best thing you can do-To smile and say, " I'm mighty glad They are no worse; they're not so bad!
That is what Farmer Brown's boy said when he found that Buster Bear had stolen the berries he had worked so hard to pick and then had run off with the pail.
You see, Farmer Brown's boy is learning to be something of a philosopher, one of those people who accept bad things cheerfully and right away see how they are better than they might have been.
When he had first heard some one in the bushes where he had hidden his pail of berries, he had been very sure that it was one of the cows or young cattle who live in the Old Pasture during the summer.
He had been afraid that they might stupidly kick over the pail and spill the berries, and he had hurried to drive whoever it was away.
It hadn't entered his head that it could be anybody who would eat those berries.
When he had yelled and Buster Bear had suddenly appeared, struggling to get off the pail which had caught over his head, Farmer Brown's boy had been too frightened to even move.
Then he had seen Buster tear away through the brush even more frightened than he was, and right away his courage had begun to come back.
There are plenty more on the bushes, and all I've got to do is to pick them.
He walked over to the place where the pail had been, and then he remembered that when Buster ran away he had carried the pail with him, hanging about his neck.
It was a comical little whistle of chagrin as he realized that he had nothing in which to put more berries, even if he picked them.
Then he began to laugh, as he thought of how funny Buster Bear had looked with the pail about his neck, and then because, you know he is learning to be a philosopher, he once more repeated, " It might have been worse.
Yes, indeed, it might have been worse.
That bear might have tried to eat me instead of the berries.
I guess I'll go eat that lunch I left back by the spring, and then I'll go home.
I can pick berries some other day.
Chuckling happily over Buster Bear's great fright, Farmer Brown's boy tramped back to the spring where he had left two thick sandwiches on a flat stone when he started to save his pail of berries.
I never was hungrier in my life.
This he exclaimed right out loud, for he had just come in sight of the flat stone where the sandwiches should have been, and they were not there.
No, Sir, there wasn't so much as a crumb left of those two thick sandwiches.
You see, Old Man Coyote had found them and gobbled them up while Farmer Brown's boy was away.
But Farmer Brown's boy didn't know anything about Old Man Coyote.
He rubbed his eyes and stared everywhere, even up in the trees, as if he thought those sandwiches might be hanging up there.
They had disappeared as completely as if they never had been, and Old Man Coyote had taken care to leave no trace of his visit.
Farmer Brown's boy gaped foolishly this way and that way.
Then, instead of growing angry, a slow smile stole over his freckled face.
Guess this Old Pasture is no place for me to-day.
I'll fill up on berries and then I'll go home.
So Farmer Brown's boy made his lunch on blueberries and then rather sheepishly he started for home to tell of all the strange things that had happened to him in the Old Pasture.
Two or three times, as he trudged along, he stopped to scratch his head thoughtfully.
This is the end of the adventures of Buster Bear in this book because-guess why.
Because Old Mr. Toad insists that I must write a book about his adventures, and Old Mr. Toad is such a good friend of all of us that I am going to do it.
There was nothing so VERY remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so VERY much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself,'Oh dear!
In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.
The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well.
Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next.
First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs.
She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed; it was labelled'ORANGE MARMALADE ', but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it.
thought Alice to herself,'after such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs!
How brave they'll all think me at home!
Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top of the house!'
Would the fall NEVER come to an end!
Presently she began again.
How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with their heads downward!
The Antipathies, I think --' (she was rather glad there WAS no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the right word) 'but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country is, you know.
Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?'
Do you think you could manage it?)
No, it'll never do to ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.'
There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again.
I wish you were down here with me!
There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very like a mouse, you know.
But do cats eat bats, I wonder?'
And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way,'Do cats eat bats?
and sometimes,'Do bats eat cats?'
for, you see, as she couldn't answer either question, it didn't much matter which way she put it.
She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly,'Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?'
down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.
Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment: she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it.
There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner,'Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting!'
She was close behind it when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof.
There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again.
Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice's first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas!
either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but at any rate it would not open any of them.
However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!
Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw.
Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope!
I think I could, if I only know how to begin.'
For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible.
It was all very well to say'Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was not going to do THAT in a hurry.
However, this bottle was NOT marked'poison,' so Alice ventured to taste it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off.
said Alice;'I must be shutting up like a telescope.'
And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going through the little door into that lovely garden.
First, however, she waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further: she felt a little nervous about this;'for it might end, you know,' said Alice to herself,'in my going out altogether, like a candle.
I wonder what I should be like then?'
And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing.
After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice!
said Alice to herself, rather sharply;'I advise you to leave off this minute!'
Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make ONE respectable person!'
Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words'EAT ME'were beautifully marked in currants.
She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself,'Which way?
So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.
cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English);'now I'm opening out like the largest telescope that ever was!
I'm sure _I_ shan't be able!
I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble myself about you: you must manage the best way you can- but I must be kind to them,' thought Alice,'or perhaps they won't walk the way I want to go!
Let me see: I'll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas.'
And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it.
And how odd the directions will look!
HEARTHRUG, NEAR THE FENDER, (WITH ALICE'S LOVE).
Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking!'
Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden key and hurried off to the garden door.
It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again.
Stop this moment, I tell you!'
But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep and reaching half down the hall.
After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming.
It was the White Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came,'Oh!
the Duchess, the Duchess!
won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!'
Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking:'Dear, dear!
How queer everything is to-day!
And yesterday things went on just as usual.
I wonder if I've been changed in the night?
Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning?
I almost think I can remember feeling a little different.
But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I?
Ah, THAT'S the great puzzle!'
And she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them.
she knows such a very little!
Besides, SHE'S she, and I'm I, and-oh dear, how puzzling it all is!
I'll try if I know all the things I used to know.
Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is-oh dear!
I shall never get to twenty at that rate!
However, the Multiplication Table doesn't signify: let's try Geography.
London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and Rome-no, THAT'S all wrong, I'm certain!
I must have been changed for Mabel!
I'll try and say " How doth the little --' and she crossed her hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do:--
ever so many lessons to learn!
No, I've made up my mind about it; if I'm Mabel, I'll stay down here!
It'll be no use their putting their heads down and saying " Come up again, dear!
I shall only look up and say " Who am I then?
Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I'll come up: if not, I'll stay down here till I'm somebody else "but, oh dear!'
cried Alice, with a sudden burst of tears,'I do wish they WOULD put their heads down!
I am so VERY tired of being all alone here!'
As she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to see that she had put on one of the Rabbit's little white kid gloves while she was talking.
said Alice, a good deal frightened at the sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence;'and now for the garden!'
and she ran with all speed back to the little door: but, alas!
the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was lying on the glass table as before,'and things are worse than ever,' thought the poor child,'for I never was so small as this before, never!
And I declare it's too bad, that it is!'
As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash!
she was up to her chin in salt water.
Her first idea was that she had somehow fallen into the sea,'and in that case I can go back by railway,' she said to herself.
However, she soon made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she was nine feet high.
said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out.
That WILL be a queer thing, to be sure!
However, everything is queer to-day.'
Everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should think very likely it can talk: at any rate, there's no harm in trying.'
So she began:'O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool?
I am very tired of swimming about here, O Mouse!'
The Mouse looked at her rather inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes, but it said nothing.
So she began again:'Ou est ma chatte?'
which was the first sentence in her French lesson-book.
The Mouse gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright.
cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt the poor animal's feelings.
cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice.
And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you'd take a fancy to cats if you could only see her.
cried Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she felt certain it must be really offended.
cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his tail.
Our family always HATED cats: nasty, low, vulgar things!
Don't let me hear the name again!'
said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of conversation.
The Mouse did not answer, so Alice went on eagerly:'There is such a nice little dog near our house I should like to show you!
A little bright-eyed terrier, you know, with oh, such long curly brown hair!
And it'll fetch things when you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts of things-I can't remember half of them-and it belongs to a farmer, you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds!
He says it kills all the rats and-oh dear!'
cried Alice in a sorrowful tone,'I'm afraid I've offended it again!'
For the Mouse was swimming away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in the pool as it went.
So she called softly after it,'Mouse dear!
Do come back again, and we won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!'
It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo, a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures.
Alice led the way, and the whole party swam to the shore.
They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank-the birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable.
The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had known them all her life.
At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them, called out,'Sit down, all of you, and listen to me!
I'LL soon make you dry enough!'
They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse in the middle.
Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.
said the Mouse with an important air,'are you all ready?
This is the driest thing I know.
Silence all round, if you please!
Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria --'
said the Lory, with a shiver.
said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely:'Did you speak?'
The question is, what did the archbishop find?'
The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, '"found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown.
William's conduct at first was moderate.
But the insolence of his Normans --" How are you getting on now, my dear?'
it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke.
And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly.
said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything.
First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (' the exact shape doesn't matter,' it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there.
There was no'One, two, three, and away,' but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over.
However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out'The race is over!'
and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking,'But who has won?'
This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence.
At last the Dodo said,'EVERYBODY has won, and all must have prizes.'
quite a chorus of voices asked.
Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes.
There was exactly one a-piece all round.
he went on, turning to Alice.
Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying'We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble '; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered.
Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could.
The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back.
However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more.
said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing.
And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:--
Said the mouse to the cur, " Such a trial, dear Sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.
said the Mouse to Alice severely.
cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.
said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her.
The Mouse only growled in reply.
Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus,'Yes, please do!'
but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker.
sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter'Ah, my dear!
Let this be a lesson to you never to lose YOUR temper!'
said the young Crab, a little snappishly.
said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular.
Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet:'Dinah's our cat.
And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think!
And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds!
Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!'
This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party.
Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking,'I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!'
and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children,'Come away, my dears!
It's high time you were all in bed!'
On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone.
she said to herself in a melancholy tone.
I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!'
And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited.
In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story.
It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself'The Duchess!
She'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets!
Where CAN I have dropped them, I wonder?'
Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone,'Why, Mary Ann, what ARE you doing out here?
Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan!
And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made.
But I'd better take him his fan and gloves-that is, if I can find them.'
As she said this, she came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass plate with the name'W.
She went in without knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and gloves.
I suppose Dinah'll be sending me on messages next!'
And she began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: '" Miss Alice!
Come here directly, and get ready for your walk!
But I've got to see that the mouse doesn't get out.
Only I don't think,' Alice went on,'that they'd let Dinah stop in the house if it began ordering people about like that!'
There was no label this time with the words'DRINK ME,' but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it to her lips.
I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!'
It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken.
She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself'That's quite enough-I hope I shan't grow any more-As it is, I can't get out at the door-I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!'
it was too late to wish that!
She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head.
Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself'Now I can do no more, whatever happens.
Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy.
I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole-and yet-and yet-it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life!
I do wonder what CAN have happened to me!
When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one!
There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought!
And when I grow up, I'll write one-but I'm grown up now,' she added in a sorrowful tone;'at least there's no room to grow up any more HERE.'
That'll be a comfort, one way-never to be an old woman-but then-always to have lessons to learn!
Oh, I shouldn't like THAT!'
Why, there's hardly room for YOU, and no room at all for any lesson-books!'
And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen.
Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs.
Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it.
Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure.
Alice heard it say to itself'Then I'll go round and get in at the window.'
She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort.
Next came an angry voice-the Rabbit's --' Pat!
And then a voice she had never heard before,'Sure then I'm here!
Digging for apples, yer honour!'
Come and help me out of THIS!'
Who ever saw one that size?
Why, it fills the whole window!'
There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as,'Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!'
and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air.
This time there were TWO little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.
As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they COULD!
I'm sure I don't want to stay in here any longer!'
She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words:'Where's the other ladder?Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other-Bill!
fetch it here, lad- Here, put'em up at this corner-No, tie'em together first-they don't reach half high enough yet-Oh!
they'll do well enough; don't be particular-Here, Bill!
catch hold of this rope-Will the roof bear?Mind that loose slate-Oh, it's coming down!
YOU do it- That I won't, then- Bill's to go down-Here, Bill!
the master says you're to go down the chimney!'
So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?'
I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I THINK I can kick a little!'
The first thing she heard was a general chorus of'There goes Bill!'
then the Rabbit's voice along --' Catch him, you by the hedge!'
then silence, and then another confusion of voices --' Hold up his head-Brandy now-Don't choke him-How was it, old fellow?
Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (' That's Bill,' thought Alice,)'Well, I hardly know-No more, thank ye; I'm better now-but I'm a deal too flustered to tell you-all I know is, something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!'
said the Rabbit's voice; and Alice called out as loud as she could,'If you do.
There was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to herself,'I wonder what they WILL do next!
If they had any sense, they'd take the roof off.'
After a minute or two, they began moving about again, and Alice heard the Rabbit say,'A barrowful will do, to begin with.'
thought Alice; but she had not long to doubt, for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the window, and some of them hit her in the face.
which produced another dead silence.
Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her head.
So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she began shrinking directly.
As soon as she was small enough to get through the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little animals and birds waiting outside.
The poor little Lizard, Bill, was in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs, who were giving it something out of a bottle.
They all made a rush at Alice the moment she appeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself safe in a thick wood.
I think that will be the best plan.'
An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her.
said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it; but she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it might be hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in spite of all her coaxing.
This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape; so she set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and till the puppy's bark sounded quite faint in the distance.
said Alice, as she leant against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the leaves:'I should have liked teaching it tricks very much, if-if I'd only been the right size to do it!
I'd nearly forgotten that I've got to grow up again!
Let me see-how IS it to be managed?
I suppose I ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great question is, what?'
The great question certainly was, what?
Alice looked all round her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see anything that looked like the right thing to eat or drink under the circumstances.
There was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as herself; and when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what was on the top of it.
The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.
This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation.
Alice replied, rather shyly,'I-I hardly know, sir, just at present-at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.'
said the Caterpillar sternly.
said the Caterpillar contemptuously.
Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation.
Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such VERY short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely,'I think, you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.'
Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant state of mind, she turned away.
the Caterpillar called after her.
This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again.
said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could.
Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing.
For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said,'So you think you're changed, do you?'
Alice replied in a very melancholy voice.
Alice folded her hands, and began:--
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!'
The Caterpillar was the first to speak.
Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.
said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high).
pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone.
And she thought of herself,'I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily offended!'
This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again.
In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself.
Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went,'One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.'
thought Alice to herself.
Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question.
However, at last she stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand.
she said to herself, and nibbled a little of the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot!
She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit.
Her chin was pressed so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the lefthand bit.
And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?'
She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow, except a little shaking among the distant green leaves.
As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent.
repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob,'I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!'
There's no pleasing them!'
Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished.
Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!'
said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest contempt.
You're a serpent; and there's no use denying it.
I suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an egg!'
This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding,'You're looking for eggs, I know THAT well enough; and what does it matter to me whether you're a little girl or a serpent?'
said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled down again into its nest.
Alice crouched down among the trees as well as she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and every now and then she had to stop and untwist it.
It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes, and began talking to herself, as usual.
How puzzling all these changes are!
I'm never sure what I'm going to be, from one minute to another!
However, I've got back to my right size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden-how IS that to be done, I wonder?'
As she said this, she came suddenly upon an open place, with a little house in it about four feet high.
So she began nibbling at the righthand bit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she had brought herself down to nine inches high.
It was opened by another footman in livery, with a round face, and large eyes like a frog; and both footmen, Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled all over their heads.
She felt very curious to know what it was all about, and crept a little way out of the wood to listen.
The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great letter, nearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to the other, saying, in a solemn tone,'For the Duchess.
An invitation from the Queen to play croquet.'
The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone, only changing the order of the words a little,'From the Queen.
An invitation for the Duchess to play croquet.'
Then they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled together.
Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into the wood for fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped out the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the door, staring stupidly up into the sky.
Alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked.
First, because I'm on the same side of the door as you are; secondly, because they're making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you.'
And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise going on within-a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces.
For instance, if you were INSIDE, you might knock, and I could let you out, you know.'
He was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and this Alice thought decidedly uncivil.
But at any rate he might answer questions- How am I to get in?'
At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came skimming out, straight at the Footman's head: it just grazed his nose, and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him.
asked Alice again, in a louder tone.
It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so.
It's enough to drive one crazy!'
The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his remark, with variations.
And she opened the door and went in.
The door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from one end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring a large cauldron which seemed to be full of soup.
Alice said to herself, as well as she could for sneezing.
There was certainly too much of it in the air.
Even the Duchess sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it was sneezing and howling alternately without a moment's pause.
The only things in the kitchen that did not sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat which was sitting on the hearth and grinning from ear to ear.
She said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice quite jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the baby, and not to her, so she took courage, and went on again:--
Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would be as well to introduce some other subject of conversation.
While she was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at the Duchess and the baby-the fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes.
The Duchess took no notice of them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already, that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not.
cried Alice, jumping up and down in an agony of terror.
You see the earth takes twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis --'
Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to be listening, so she went on again:'Twenty-four hours, I THINK; or is it twelve?
And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of every line:
While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the words:--
you may nurse it a bit, if you like!'
the Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke.
The cook threw a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her.
Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions,'just like a star-fish,' thought Alice.
The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it.
As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air.
She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time).
The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it.
There could be no doubt that it had a VERY turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the thing at all.
The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for some while in silence.
Alice was just beginning to think to herself,'Now, what am I to do with this creature when I get it home?'
when it grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in some alarm.
This time there could be NO mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further.
So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood.
And she began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying to herself,'if one only knew the right way to change them --' when she was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off.
The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice.
It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had VERY long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.
Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question.
Visit either you like: they're both mad.'
Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on'And how do you know that you're mad?'
Now I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry.
Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer things happening.
While she was looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared again.
Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live.
As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree.
I've often seen a cat without a grin,' thought Alice;'but a grin without a cat!
It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!'
She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur.
I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!'
There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head.
The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it:'No room!
they cried out when they saw Alice coming.
said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.
Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea.
He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.
The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he SAID was,'Why is a raven like a writing-desk?'
The Hatter was the first to break the silence.
he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear.
Alice considered a little, and then said'The fourth.'
he added looking angrily at the March Hare.
The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark,'It was the BEST butter, you know.'
Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity.
Alice felt dreadfully puzzled.
The Hatter's remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English.
The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes,'Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.'
the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.
the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously.
that accounts for it,' said the Hatter.
Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock.
For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling!
Half-past one, time for dinner!'
The Hatter shook his head mournfully.
How I wonder what you're at!
You know the song, perhaps?'
Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep'Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle --' and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop.
It's always six o'clock now.'
A bright idea came into Alice's head.
I vote the young lady tells us a story.'
And they pinched it on both sides at once.
The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes.
said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking.
Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on:'But why did they live at the bottom of a well?'
the Hatter asked triumphantly.
Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question.
The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said,'It was a treacle-well.'
Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went'Sh!
and the Dormouse sulkily remarked,'If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself.'
Alice said very humbly;'I won't interrupt again.
I dare say there may be ONE.'
said the Dormouse indignantly.
However, he consented to go on.
said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.
He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare.
The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate.
Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously:'But I don't understand.
Where did they draw the treacle from?'
This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it.
said Alice as she picked her way through the wood.
Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door leading right into it.
I think I may as well go in at once.'
Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little glass table.
A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily painting them red.
Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of them say,'Look out now, Five!
Don't go splashing paint over me like that!'
On which Seven looked up and said,'That's right, Five!
Always lay the blame on others!'
said the one who had spoken first.
said Five,'and I'll tell him-it was for bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.'
Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun'Well, of all the unjust things --' when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them bowed low.
Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two.
Two began in a low voice,'Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a RED rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know.
So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to --' At this moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called out'The Queen!
and the three gardeners instantly threw themselves flat upon their faces.
There was a sound of many footsteps, and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen.
First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did.
After these came the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented with hearts.
Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing her.
Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS.
So she stood still where she was, and waited.
When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked at her, and the Queen said severely'Who is this?'
She said it to the Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply.
said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to Alice, she went on,'What's your name, child?'
I needn't be afraid of them!'
said Alice, surprised at her own courage.
The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed'Off with her head!
said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was silent.
The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said'Consider, my dear: she is only a child!'
The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave'Turn them over!'
The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot.
said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen, the royal children, and everybody else.
And then, turning to the rose-tree, she went on,'What HAVE you been doing here?'
said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses.
and the procession moved on, three of the soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran to Alice for protection.
said Alice, and she put them into a large flower-pot that stood near.
The three soldiers wandered about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the others.
the soldiers shouted in reply.
The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was evidently meant for her.
roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next.
said a timid voice at her side.
She was walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face.
said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone.
He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered'She's under sentence of execution.'
Alice gave a little scream of laughter.
the Rabbit whispered in a frightened tone.
You see, she came rather late, and the Queen said --'
shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began.
Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs, the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.
The players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and shouting'Off with his head!'
Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute,'and then,' thought she,'what would become of me?
They're dreadfully fond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there's any one left alive!'
said the Cat, as soon as there was mouth enough for it to speak with.
Alice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded.
In another minute the whole head appeared, and then Alice put down her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad she had someone to listen to her.
The Cat seemed to think that there was enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared.
said the Cat in a low voice.
The Queen smiled and passed on.
said the King, going up to Alice, and looking at the Cat's head with great curiosity.
He got behind Alice as he spoke.
I wish you would have this cat removed!'
The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small.
she said, without even looking round.
Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going on, as she heard the Queen's voice in the distance, screaming with passion.
She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew whether it was her turn or not.
So she went in search of her hedgehog.
By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight:'but it doesn't matter much,' thought Alice,'as all the arches are gone from this side of the ground.'
So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend.
The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said.
The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn't going to begin at HIS time of life.
The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense.
The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round.
Alice could think of nothing else to say but'It belongs to the Duchess: you'd better ask HER about it.'
And the executioner went off like an arrow.
The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game.
said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together.
Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen.
I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn't be so stingy about it, you know --'
She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little startled when she heard her voice close to her ear.
I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.'
And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as she spoke.
Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an uncomfortably sharp chin.
However, she did not like to be rude, so she bore it as well as she could.
Tis so,' said the Duchess:'and the moral of that is --" Oh,'tis love,'tis love, that makes the world go round!'
It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added,'and the moral of THAT is --" Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.'
Alice thought to herself.
Shall I try the experiment?'
And the moral of that is --" Birds of a feather flock together.'
And the moral of that is --" The more there is of mine, the less there is of yours.'
exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark,'it's a vegetable.
It doesn't look like one, but it is.'
But she did not venture to say it out loud.
the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin.
But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even in the middle of her favourite word'moral,' and the arm that was linked into hers began to tremble.
Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.
the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.
The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment.
The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would cost them their lives.
All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with the other players, and shouting'Off with his head!'
Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice,'Have you seen the Mock Turtle yet?'
As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice, to the company generally,'You are all pardoned.'
she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the number of executions the Queen had ordered.
They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun.
said the Queen,'and take this young lady to see the Mock Turtle, and to hear his history.
I must go back and see after some executions I have ordered '; and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with the Gryphon.
Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go after that savage Queen: so she waited.
The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till she was out of sight: then it chuckled.
said the Gryphon, half to itself, half to Alice.
here,' thought Alice, as she went slowly after it:'I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!'
They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break.
she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before,'It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know.
So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing.
So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes.
Alice thought to herself,'I don't see how he can EVEN finish, if he doesn't begin.'
But she waited patiently.
These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of'Hjckrrh!'
from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle.
Alice was very nearly getting up and saying,'Thank you, sir, for your interesting story,' but she could not help thinking there MUST be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing.
The master was an old Turtle-we used to call him Tortoise --'
At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle,'Drive on, old fellow!
Don't be all day about it!'
and he went on in these words:
added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again.
asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously.
then yours wasn't a really good school,' said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief.
said the Mock Turtle with a sigh.
The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise.
Never heard of uglifying!'
Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said'What else had you to learn?'
And the Gryphon never learnt it.'
He was an old crab, HE was.'
said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.
This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark.
The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes.
He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice.
At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:--
shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air.
cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about.
yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice.
said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon.
So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:--
said a whiting to a snail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle-will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?
But the snail replied " Too far, too far!
and gave a look askance-Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.
his scaly friend replied.
The further off from England the nearer is to France-Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?'
But they HAVE their tails in their mouths; and the reason is --' here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes-' Tell her about the reason and all that,' he said to the Gryphon.
So they got thrown out to sea.
So they had to fall a long way.
So they got their tails fast in their mouths.
So they couldn't get them out again.
I never knew so much about a whiting before.'
the Gryphon replied very solemnly.
Alice was thoroughly puzzled.
she repeated in a wondering tone.
Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her answer.
Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity.
said Alice in a tone of great surprise.
And the Gryphon added'Come, let's hear some of YOUR adventures.'
The adventures first,' said the Gryphon in an impatient tone:'explanations take such a dreadful time.'
So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first saw the White Rabbit.
She was a little nervous about it just at first, the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened their eyes and mouths so VERY wide, but she gained courage as she went on.
Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about her repeating'YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,' to the Caterpillar, and the words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath, and said'That's very curious.'
the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully.
He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of authority over Alice.
thought Alice;'I might as well be at school at once.'
However, she got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came very queer indeed:--
Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare, " You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.'
Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would EVER happen in a natural way again.
the Mock Turtle persisted.
Alice said; but was dreadfully puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject.
Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:--
When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon, Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon: While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl, And concluded the banquet --]
It's by far the most confusing thing I ever heard!'
No accounting for tastes!
Sing her " Turtle Soup," will you, old fellow?'
The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked with sobs, to sing this:--
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soo-oop of the e-e-evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup!
Who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
Soo-oop of the e-e-evening, Beautiful, beauti-FUL SOUP!'
cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun to repeat it, when a cry of'The trial's beginning!'
was heard in the distance.
cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried off, without waiting for the end of the song.
Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only answered'Come on!'
and ran the faster, while more and more faintly came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:--
In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them --' I wish they'd get the trial done,' she thought,'and hand round the refreshments!'
But there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about her, to pass away the time.
Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew the name of nearly everything there.
The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming.
She said this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her age knew the meaning of it at all.
However,'jury-men'would have done just as well.
The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates.
Alice whispered to the Gryphon.
Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out,'Silence in the court!'
and the King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who was talking.
Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders, that all the jurors were writing down'stupid things!'
on their slates, and she could even make out that one of them didn't know how to spell'stupid,' and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him.
One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked.
This of course, Alice could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away.
On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:--
the Rabbit hastily interrupted.
The first witness was the Hatter.
He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other.
The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse.
the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a memorandum of the fact.
Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter, who turned pale and fidgeted.
This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread-and-butter.
said the Dormouse, who was sitting next to her.
And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court.
All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court,'Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!'
on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off.
the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry.
The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter, and went down on one knee.
Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court.
They had a large canvas bag, which tied up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig, head first, and then sat upon it.)
Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed.
The next witness was the Duchess's cook.
She carried the pepper-box in her hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before she got into the court, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once.
The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice,'Your Majesty must cross-examine THIS witness.'
Turn that Dormouse out of court!
For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse turned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had disappeared.
said the King, with an air of great relief.
And he added in an undertone to the Queen,'Really, my dear, YOU must cross-examine the next witness.
It quite makes my forehead ache!'
Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very curious to see what the next witness would be like, 'for they haven't got much evidence YET,' she said to herself.
Imagine her surprise, when the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the name'Alice!'
Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move.
She soon got it out again, and put it right;'not that it signifies much,' she said to herself;'I should think it would be QUITE as much use in the trial one way up as the other.'
They were just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit interrupted:'UNimportant, your Majesty means, of course,' he said in a very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke.
Some of the jury wrote it down'important,' and some'unimportant.'
Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates;'but it doesn't matter a bit,' she thought to herself.
At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in his note-book, cackled out'Silence!'
and read out from his book,'Rule Forty-two.
ALL PERSONS MORE THAN A MILE HIGH TO LEAVE THE COURT.'
Everybody looked at Alice.
The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily.
He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added'It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses.'
asked another of the jurymen.
You MUST have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man.'
There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really clever thing the King had said that day.
The White Rabbit put on his spectacles.
These were the verses the White Rabbit read:--
He sent them word I had not gone (We know it to be true): If she should push the matter on, What would become of you?
I gave her one, they gave him two, You gave us three or more; They all returned from him to you, Though they were mine before.
If I or she should chance to be Involved in this affair, He trusts to you to set them free, Exactly as we were.
My notion was that you had been (Before she had this fit) An obstacle that came between Him, and ourselves, and it.
Don't let him know she liked them best, For this must ever be A secret, kept from all the rest, Between yourself and me.'
The jury all wrote down on their slates,'SHE doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it,' but none of them attempted to explain the paper.
And yet I don't know,' he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them with one eye;'I seem to see some meaning in them, after all.
SAID I COULD NOT SWIM --" you can't swim, can you?'
he added, turning to the Knave.
The Knave shook his head sadly.
said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts on the table.
Then again --" BEFORE SHE HAD THIS FIT --" you never had fits, my dear, I think?'
said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard as she spoke.
There was a dead silence.
the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed,'Let the jury consider their verdict,' the King said, for about the twentieth time that day.
said the Queen, turning purple.
the Queen shouted at the top of her voice.
said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this time.)
said her sister;'Why, what a long sleep you've had!'
So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.
But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:--
The flying ship of Professor Lucifer sang through the skies like a silver arrow; the bleak white steel of it, gleaming in the bleak blue emptiness of the evening.
That it was far above the earth was no expression for it; to the two men in it, it seemed to be far above the stars.
The professor had himself invented the flying machine, and had also invented nearly everything in it.
Every sort of tool or apparatus had, in consequence, to the full, that fantastic and distorted look which belongs to the miracles of science.
All the tools of Professor Lucifer were the ancient human tools gone mad, grown into unrecognizable shapes, forgetful of their origin, forgetful of their names.
That thing which looked like an enormous key with three wheels was really a patent and very deadly revolver.
That object which seemed to be created by the entanglement of two corkscrews was really the key.
The thing which might have been mistaken for a tricycle turned upside-down was the inexpressibly important instrument to which the corkscrew was the key.
All these things, as I say, the professor had invented; he had invented everything in the flying ship, with the exception, perhaps, of himself.
This he had been born too late actually to inaugurate, but he believed at least, that he had considerably improved it.
There was, however, another man on board, so to speak, at the time.
Him, also, by a curious coincidence, the professor had not invented, and him he had not even very greatly improved, though he had fished him up with a lasso out of his own back garden, in Western Bulgaria, with the pure object of improving him.
He was an exceedingly holy man, almost entirely covered with white hair.
You could see nothing but his eyes, and he seemed to talk with them.
The old monk, one of whose names was Michael, and the other a name quite impossible to remember or repeat in our Western civilization, had, however, as I have said, made himself quite happy while he was in a mountain hermitage in the society of wild animals.
And now that his luck had lifted him above all the mountains in the society of a wild physicist, he made himself happy still.
The imbecility of your traditions can be quite finally exhibited to anybody with mere ordinary knowledge of the world, the same kind of knowledge which teaches us not to sit in draughts or not to encourage friendliness in impecunious people.
It is folly to talk of this or that demonstrating the rationalist philosophy.
Everything demonstrates it.
Rubbing shoulders with men of all kinds ----
In your religion and all the religions, as far as I know (and I know everything), the sky is made the symbol of everything that is sacred and merciful.
Well, now you are in the sky, you know better.
Phrase it how you like, twist it how you like, you know that you know better.
You know what are a man's real feelings about the heavens, when he finds himself alone in the heavens, surrounded by the heavens.
You know the truth, and the truth is this.
The heavens are evil, the sky is evil, the stars are evil.
This mere space, this mere quantity, terrifies a man more than tigers or the terrible plague.
You know that since our science has spoken, the bottom has fallen out of the Universe.
Now, heaven is the hopeless thing, more hopeless than any hell.
Now, if there be any comfort for all your miserable progeny of morbid apes, it must be in the earth, underneath you, under the roots of the grass, in the place where hell was of old.
The fiery crypts, the lurid cellars of the underworld, to which you once condemned the wicked, are hideous enough, but at least they are more homely than the heaven in which we ride.
And the time will come when you will all hide in them, to escape the horror of the stars.
How did my view strike you?
get on," cried Lucifer, boisterously.
I thought you wouldn't mind my mentioning it, but it's running into something now.
Lucifer exploded with an oath and leapt erect, leaning hard upon the handle that acted as a helm to the vessel.
For the last ten minutes they had been shooting downwards into great cracks and caverns of cloud.
Now, through a sort of purple haze, could be seen comparatively near to them what seemed to be the upper part of a huge, dark orb or sphere, islanded in a sea of cloud.
The Professor's eyes were blazing like a maniac's.
This star and not that other vulgar one shall be'Lucifer, sun of the morning.'
Here we will have no chartered lunacies, here we will have no gods.
Here man shall be as innocent as the daisies, as innocent and as cruel-here the intellect ----
It might of course be merely a ----
Then a shriek indescribable broke out of him of a sudden, and he flung up his arms like a lost spirit.
A plain of sad-coloured cloud lay along the level of the top of the Cathedral dome, so that the ball and the cross looked like a buoy riding on a leaden sea.
As the flying ship swept towards it, this plain of cloud looked as dry and definite and rocky as any grey desert.
Hence it gave to the mind and body a sharp and unearthly sensation when the ship cut and sank into the cloud as into any common mist, a thing without resistance.
There was, as it were, a deadly shock in the fact that there was no shock.
It was as if they had cloven into ancient cliffs like so much butter.
But sensations awaited them which were much stranger than those of sinking through the solid earth.
For a moment their eyes and nostrils were stopped with darkness and opaque cloud; then the darkness warmed into a kind of brown fog.
And far, far below them the brown fog fell until it warmed into fire.
Through the dense London atmosphere they could see below them the flaming London lights; lights which lay beneath them in squares and oblongs of fire.
The fog and fire were mixed in a passionate vapour; you might say that the fog was drowning the flames; or you might say that the flames had set the fog on fire.
Beside the ship and beneath it (for it swung just under the ball), the immeasurable dome itself shot out and down into the dark like a combination of voiceless cataracts.
Or it was like some cyclopean sea-beast sitting above London and letting down its tentacles bewilderingly on every side, a monstrosity in that starless heaven.
For the clouds that belonged to London had closed over the heads of the voyagers sealing up the entrance of the upper air.
They had broken through a roof and come into a temple of twilight.
They were so near to the ball that Lucifer leaned his hand against it, holding the vessel away, as men push a boat off from a bank.
Above it the cross already draped in the dark mists of the borderland was shadowy and more awful in shape and size.
Professor Lucifer slapped his hand twice upon the surface of the great orb as if he were caressing some enormous animal.
Not like that scraggy individual, stretching his arms in stark weariness.
And he pointed up to the cross, his face dark with a grin.
Here is an instance with a vengeance.
What could possibly express your philosophy and my philosophy better than the shape of that cross and the shape of this ball?
This globe is reasonable; that cross is unreasonable.
It is a four-legged animal, with one leg longer than the others.
Above all the globe is at unity with itself; the cross is primarily and above all things at enmity with itself.
The cross is the conflict of two hostile lines, of irreconcilable direction.
That silent thing up there is essentially a collision, a crash, a struggle in stone.
that sacred symbol of yours has actually given its name to a description of desperation and muddle.
When we speak of men at once ignorant of each other and frustrated by each other, we say they are at cross-purposes.
The very shape of it is a contradiction in terms.
Man is a contradiction in terms; he is a beast whose superiority to other beasts consists in having fallen.
That cross is, as you say, an eternal collision; so am I.
That is a struggle in stone.
Every form of life is a struggle in flesh.
The shape of the cross is irrational, just as the shape of the human animal is irrational.
You say the cross is a quadruped with one limb longer than the rest.
I say man is a quadruped who only uses two of his legs.
The Professor frowned thoughtfully for an instant, and said: " Of course everything is relative, and I would not deny that the element of struggle and self-contradiction, represented by that cross, has a necessary place at a certain evolutionary stage.
But surely the cross is the lower development and the sphere the higher.
After all it is easy enough to see what is really wrong with Wren's architectural arrangement.
inquired Michael, meekly.
The ball should be on top of the cross.
The cross is a mere barbaric prop; the ball is perfection.
The cross at its best is but the bitter tree of man's history; the ball is the rounded, the ripe and final fruit.
And the fruit should be at the top of the tree, not at the bottom of it.
said the monk, a wrinkle coming into his forehead, " so you think that in a rationalistic scheme of symbolism the ball should be on top of the cross?
You would see, I think, that thing happen which is always the ultimate embodiment and logical outcome of your logical scheme.
Lucifer made an angry movement and opened his mouth to speak, but Michael, with all his air of deliberation, was proceeding before he could bring out a word.
His history is rather amusing.
It is also a perfect allegory of what happens to rationalists like yourself.
He began, of course, by refusing to allow a crucifix in his house, or round his wife's neck, or even in a picture.
He said, as you say, that it was an arbitrary and fantastic shape, that it was a monstrosity, loved because it was paradoxical.
Then he began to grow fiercer and more eccentric; he would batter the crosses by the roadside; for he lived in a Roman Catholic country.
Finally in a height of frenzy he climbed the steeple of the Parish Church and tore down the cross, waving it in the air, and uttering wild soliloquies up there under the stars.
Then one still summer evening as he was wending his way homewards, along a lane, the devil of his madness came upon him with a violence and transfiguration which changes the world.
He was standing smoking, for a moment, in the front of an interminable line of palings, when his eyes were opened.
Not a light shifted, not a leaf stirred, but he saw as if by a sudden change in the eyesight that this paling was an army of innumerable crosses linked together over hill and dale.
And he whirled up his heavy stick and went at it as if at an army.
Mile after mile along his homeward path he broke it down and tore it up.
For he hated the cross and every paling is a wall of crosses.
When he returned to his house he was a literal madman.
He sat upon a chair and then started up from it for the cross-bars of the carpentry repeated the intolerable image.
He flung himself upon a bed only to remember that this, too, like all workmanlike things, was constructed on the accursed plan.
He broke his furniture because it was made of crosses.
He burnt his house because it was made of crosses.
He was found in the river.
Lucifer was looking at him with a bitten lip.
It is a parable of you and all your rationalists.
You begin by breaking up the Cross; but you end by breaking up the habitable world.
We leave you saying that nobody ought to join the Church against his will.
When we meet you again you are saying that no one has any will to join it with.
We leave you saying that there is no such place as Eden.
We find you saying that there is no such place as Ireland.
You start by hating the irrational and you come to hate everything, for everything is irrational and so ----
Lucifer leapt upon him with a cry like a wild beast's.
You are mad on the cross.
And with a herculean energy he forced the monk backwards out of the reeling car on to the upper part of the stone ball.
Michael, with as abrupt an agility, caught one of the beams of the cross and saved himself from falling.
At the same instant Lucifer drove down a lever and the ship shot up with him in it alone.
he yelled, " what sort of a support do you find it, old fellow?
May I ask if you are going to leave me here?
cried the professor in ungovernable excitement.
The monk pointed downward at Ludgate Hill.
Those who look at the matter most superficially regard paradox as something which belongs to jesting and light journalism.
Paradox of this kind is to be found in the saying of the dandy, in the decadent comedy, " Life is much too important to be taken seriously.
Those who look at the matter a little more deeply or delicately see that paradox is a thing which especially belongs to all religions.
Paradox of this kind is to be found in such a saying as " The meek shall inherit the earth.
But those who see and feel the fundamental fact of the matter know that paradox is a thing which belongs not to religion only, but to all vivid and violent practical crises of human living.
This kind of paradox may be clearly perceived by anybody who happens to be hanging in mid-space, clinging to one arm of the Cross of St. Paul's.
Father Michael in spite of his years, and in spite of his asceticism (or because of it, for all I know), was a very healthy and happy old gentleman.
And as he swung on a bar above the sickening emptiness of air, he realized, with that sort of dead detachment which belongs to the brains of those in peril, the deathless and hopeless contradiction which is involved in the mere idea of courage.
He was a happy and healthy old gentleman and therefore he was quite careless about it.
And he felt as every man feels in the taut moment of such terror that his chief danger was terror itself; his only possible strength would be a coolness amounting to carelessness, a carelessness amounting almost to a suicidal swagger.
His one wild chance of coming out safely would be in not too desperately desiring to be safe.
There might be footholds down that awful facade, if only he could not care whether they were footholds or no.
If he were foolhardy he might escape; if he were wise he would stop where he was till he dropped from the cross like a stone.
And this antinomy kept on repeating itself in his mind, a contradiction as large and staring as the immense contradiction of the Cross; he remembered having often heard the words, " Whosoever shall lose his life the same shall save it.
He remembered with a sort of strange pity that this had always been made to mean that whoever lost his physical life should save his spiritual life.
Now he knew the truth that is known to all fighters, and hunters, and climbers of cliffs.
He knew that even his animal life could only be saved by a considerable readiness to lose it.
Some will think it improbable that a human soul swinging desperately in mid-air should think about philosophical inconsistencies.
But such extreme states are dangerous things to dogmatize about.
Frequently they produce a certain useless and joyless activity of the mere intellect, thought not only divorced from hope but even from desire.
And if it is impossible to dogmatize about such states, it is still more impossible to describe them.
To this spasm of sanity and clarity in Michael's mind succeeded a spasm of the elemental terror; the terror of the animal in us which regards the whole universe as its enemy; which, when it is victorious, has no pity, and so, when it is defeated has no imaginable hope.
Of that ten minutes of terror it is not possible to speak in human words.
But then again in that damnable darkness there began to grow a strange dawn as of grey and pale silver.
And of this ultimate resignation or certainty it is even less possible to write; it is something stranger than hell itself; it is perhaps the last of the secrets of God.
At the highest crisis of some incurable anguish there will suddenly fall upon the man the stillness of an insane contentment.
It is not hope, for hope is broken and romantic and concerned with the future; this is complete and of the present.
It is not faith, for faith by its very nature is fierce, and as it were at once doubtful and defiant; but this is simply a satisfaction.
It is not knowledge, for the intellect seems to have no particular part in it.
Nor is it (as the modern idiots would certainly say it is) a mere numbness or negative paralysis of the powers of grief.
It is not negative in the least; it is as positive as good news.
In some sense, indeed, it is good news.
It seems almost as if there were some equality among things, some balance in all possible contingencies which we are not permitted to know lest we should learn indifference to good and evil, but which is sometimes shown to us for an instant as a last aid in our last agony.
Michael certainly could not have given any sort of rational account of this vast unmeaning satisfaction which soaked through him and filled him to the brim.
He felt with a sort of half-witted lucidity that the cross was there, and the ball was there, and the dome was there, that he was going to climb down from them, and that he did not mind in the least whether he was killed or not.
This mysterious mood lasted long enough to start him on his dreadful descent and to force him to continue it.
But six times before he reached the highest of the outer galleries terror had returned on him like a flying storm of darkness and thunder.
By the time he had reached that place of safety he almost felt (as in some impossible fit of drunkenness) that he had two heads; one was calm, careless, and efficient; the other saw the danger like a deadly map, was wise, careful, and useless.
He had fancied that he would have to let himself vertically down the face of the whole building.
When he dropped into the upper gallery he still felt as far from the terrestrial globe as if he had only dropped from the sun to the moon.
He paused a little, panting in the gallery under the ball, and idly kicked his heels, moving a few yards along it.
And as he did so a thunderbolt struck his soul.
A man, a heavy, ordinary man, with a composed indifferent face, and a prosaic sort of uniform, with a row of buttons, blocked his way.
Michael had no mind to wonder whether this solid astonished man, with the brown moustache and the nickel buttons, had also come on a flying ship.
He merely let his mind float in an endless felicity about the man.
He thought how nice it would be if he had to live up in that gallery with that one man for ever.
He thought how he would luxuriate in the nameless shades of this man's soul and then hear with an endless excitement about the nameless shades of the souls of all his aunts and uncles.
A moment before he had been dying alone.
Now he was living in the same world with a man; an inexhaustible ecstasy.
In the gallery below the ball Father Michael had found that man who is the noblest and most divine and most lovable of all men, better than all the saints, greater than all the heroes-man Friday.
In the confused colour and music of his new paradise, Michael heard only in a faint and distant fashion some remarks that this beautiful solid man seemed to be making to him; remarks about something or other being after hours and against orders.
He also seemed to be asking how Michael " got up " there.
This beautiful man evidently felt as Michael did that the earth was a star and was set in heaven.
At length Michael sated himself with the mere sensual music of the voice of the man in buttons.
He began to listen to what he said, and even to make some attempt at answering a question which appeared to have been put several times and was now put with some excess of emphasis.
Michael realized that the image of God in nickel buttons was asking him how he had come there.
He said that he had come in Lucifer's ship.
On his giving this answer the demeanour of the image of God underwent a remarkable change.
From addressing Michael gruffly, as if he were a malefactor, he began suddenly to speak to him with a sort of eager and feverish amiability as if he were a child.
He seemed particularly anxious to coax him away from the balustrade.
He led him by the arm towards a door leading into the building itself, soothing him all the time.
He gave what even Michael (slight as was his knowledge of the world) felt to be an improbable account of the sumptuous pleasures and varied advantages awaiting him downstairs.
Michael followed him, however, if only out of politeness, down an apparently interminable spiral of staircase.
At one point a door opened.
Michael stepped through it, and the unaccountable man in buttons leapt after him and pinioned him where he stood.
But he only wished to stand; to stand and stare.
He had stepped as it were into another infinity, out under the dome of another heaven.
But this was a dome of heaven made by man.
The gold and green and crimson of its sunset were not in the shapeless clouds but in shapes of cherubim and seraphim, awful human shapes with a passionate plumage.
Its stars were not above but far below, like fallen stars still in unbroken constellations; the dome itself was full of darkness.
And far below, lower even than the lights, could be seen creeping or motionless, great black masses of men.
The tongue of a terrible organ seemed to shake the very air in the whole void; and through it there came up to Michael the sound of a tongue more terrible; the dreadful everlasting voice of man, calling to his gods from the beginning to the end of the world.
Michael felt almost as if he were a god, and all the voices were hurled at him.
There's something that will surprise you downstairs; something you want very much to see.
Evidently the man in buttons did not feel like a god, so Michael made no attempt to explain his feelings to him, but followed him meekly enough down the trail of the serpentine staircase.
He had no notion where or at what level he was.
He felt suddenly happy and suddenly indescribably small.
He fancied he had been changed into a child again; his eyes sought the pavement seriously as children's do, as if it were a thing with which something satisfactory could be done.
He felt the full warmth of that pleasure from which the proud shut themselves out; the pleasure which not only goes with humiliation, but which almost is humiliation.
Men who have escaped death by a hair have it, and men whose love is returned by a woman unexpectedly, and men whose sins are forgiven them.
Everything his eye fell on it feasted on, not aesthetically, but with a plain, jolly appetite as of a boy eating buns.
He relished the squareness of the houses; he liked their clean angles as if he had just cut them with a knife.
The lit squares of the shop windows excited him as the young are excited by the lit stage of some promising pantomime.
He happened to see in one shop which projected with a bulging bravery on to the pavement some square tins of potted meat, and it seemed like a hint of a hundred hilarious high teas in a hundred streets of the world.
He was, perhaps, the happiest of all the children of men.
For in that unendurable instant when he hung, half slipping, to the ball of St. Paul's, the whole universe had been destroyed and re-created.
Suddenly through all the din of the dark streets came a crash of glass.
With that mysterious suddenness of the Cockney mob, a rush was made in the right direction, a dingy office, next to the shop of the potted meat.
The pane of glass was lying in splinters about the pavement.
And the police already had their hands on a very tall young man, with dark, lank hair and dark, dazed eyes, with a grey plaid over his shoulder, who had just smashed the shop window with a single blow of his stick.
Did you see what it said?
Then his eyes encountered the monkish habit of Michael, and he pulled off his grey tam-o '- shanter with the gesture of a Catholic.
I didn't understand it at first.
I read it half through before I broke the window.
Michael felt he knew not how.
The whole peace of the world was pent up painfully in his heart.
The new and childlike world which he had seen so suddenly, men had not seen at all.
Here they were still at their old bewildering, pardonable, useless quarrels, with so much to be said on both sides, and so little that need be said at all.
A fierce inspiration fell on him suddenly; he would strike them where they stood with the love of God.
They should not move till they saw their own sweet and startling existence.
They should not go from that place till they went home embracing like brothers and shouting like men delivered.
From the Cross from which he had fallen fell the shadow of its fantastic mercy; and the first three words he spoke in a voice like a silver trumpet, held men as still as stones.
Perhaps if he had spoken there for an hour in his illumination he might have founded a religion on Ludgate Hill.
But the heavy hand of his guide fell suddenly on his shoulder.
Says he came in a flying ship.
Is there a constable to spare to take care of him?
There was a constable to spare.
Two other constables attended to the tall young man in grey; a fourth concerned himself with the owner of the shop, who showed some tendency to be turbulent.
They took the tall young man away to a magistrate, whither we shall follow him in an ensuing chapter.
And they took the happiest man in the world away to an asylum.
The editorial office of _The Atheist_ had for some years past become less and less prominently interesting as a feature of Ludgate Hill.
The paper was unsuited to the atmosphere.
It showed an interest in the Bible unknown in the district, and a knowledge of that volume to which nobody else on Ludgate Hill could make any conspicuous claim.
It was in vain that the editor of _The Atheist_ filled his front window with fierce and final demands as to what Noah in the Ark did with the neck of the giraffe.
It was in vain that he asked violently, as for the last time, how the statement " God is Spirit " could be reconciled with the statement " The earth is His footstool.
It was in vain that he cried with an accusing energy that the Bishop of London was paid L12, 000 a year for pretending to believe that the whale swallowed Jonah.
It was in vain that he hung in conspicuous places the most thrilling scientific calculations about the width of the throat of a whale.
Was it nothing to them all they that passed by?
Did his sudden and splendid and truly sincere indignation never stir any of the people pouring down Ludgate Hill?
The little man who edited _The Atheist_ would rush from his shop on starlit evenings and shake his fist at St. Paul's in the passion of his holy war upon the holy place.
He might have spared his emotion.
The cross at the top of St. Paul's and _The Atheist_ shop at the foot of it were alike remote from the world.
The shop and the Cross were equally uplifted and alone in the empty heavens.
To the little man who edited _The Atheist_, a fiery little Scotchman, with fiery, red hair and beard, going by the name of Turnbull, all this decline in public importance seemed not so much sad or even mad, but merely bewildering and unaccountable.
He had said the worst thing that could be said; and it seemed accepted and ignored like the ordinary second best of the politicians.
Every day his blasphemies looked more glaring, and every day the dust lay thicker upon them.
It made him feel as if he were moving in a world of idiots.
He seemed among a race of men who smiled when told of their own death, or looked vacantly at the Day of Judgement.
Year after year went by, and year after year the death of God in a shop in Ludgate became a less and less important occurrence.
All the forward men of his age discouraged Turnbull.
The socialists said he was cursing priests when he should be cursing capitalists.
The artists said that the soul was most spiritual, not when freed from religion, but when freed from morality.
Year after year went by, and at least a man came by who treated Mr. Turnbull's secularist shop with a real respect and seriousness.
He was a young man in a grey plaid, and he smashed the window.
He was a young man, born in the Bay of Arisaig, opposite Rum and the Isle of Skye.
His high, hawklike features and snaky black hair bore the mark of that unknown historic thing which is crudely called Celtic, but which is probably far older than the Celts, whoever they were.
He was in name and stock a Highlander of the Macdonalds; but his family took, as was common in such cases, the name of a subordinate sept as a surname, and for all the purposes which could be answered in London, he called himself Evan MacIan.
He had been brought up in some loneliness and seclusion as a strict Roman Catholic, in the midst of that little wedge of Roman Catholics which is driven into the Western Highlands.
And he had found his way as far as Fleet Street, seeking some half-promised employment, without having properly realized that there were in the world any people who were not Roman Catholics.
He had uncovered himself for a few moments before the statue of Queen Anne, in front of St. Paul's Cathedral, under the firm impression that it was a figure of the Virgin Mary.
He was somewhat surprised at the lack of deference shown to the figure by the people bustling by.
He did not understand that their one essential historical principle, the one law truly graven on their hearts, was the great and comforting statement that Queen Anne is dead.
This faith was as fundamental as his faith, that Our Lady was alive.
Any persons he had talked to since he had touched the fringe of our fashion or civilization had been by a coincidence, sympathetic or hypocritical.
Or if they had spoken some established blasphemies, he had been unable to understand them merely owing to the preoccupied satisfaction of his mind.
On that fantastic fringe of the Gaelic land where he walked as a boy, the cliffs were as fantastic as the clouds.
Heaven seemed to humble itself and come closer to the earth.
The common paths of his little village began to climb quite suddenly and seemed resolved to go to heaven.
The sky seemed to fall down towards the hills; the hills took hold upon the sky.
In the sumptuous sunset of gold and purple and peacock green cloudlets and islets were the same.
Evan lived like a man walking on a borderland, the borderland between this world and another.
Like so many men and nations who grow up with nature and the common things, he understood the supernatural before he understood the natural.
He had looked at dim angels standing knee-deep in the grass before he had looked at the grass.
He knew that Our Lady's robes were blue before he knew the wild roses round her feet were red.
The deeper his memory plunged into the dark house of childhood the nearer and nearer he came to the things that cannot be named.
All through his life he thought of the daylight world as a sort of divine debris, the broken remainder of his first vision.
The skies and mountains were the splendid off-scourings of another place.
The stars were lost jewels of the Queen.
Our Lady had gone and left the stars by accident.
His private tradition was equally wild and unworldly.
His great-grandfather had been cut down at Culloden, certain in his last instant that God would restore the King.
His grandfather, then a boy of ten, had taken the terrible claymore from the hand of the dead and hung it up in his house, burnishing it and sharpening it for sixty years, to be ready for the next rebellion.
His father, the youngest son and the last left alive, had refused to attend on Queen Victoria in Scotland.
And Evan himself had been of one piece with his progenitors; and was not dead with them, but alive in the twentieth century.
He was not in the least the pathetic Jacobite of whom we read, left behind by a final advance of all things.
He was, in his own fancy, a conspirator, fierce and up to date.
In the long, dark afternoons of the Highland winter, he plotted and fumed in the dark.
He drew plans of the capture of London on the desolate sand of Arisaig.
When he came up to capture London, it was not with an army of white cockades, but with a stick and a satchel.
London overawed him a little, not because he thought it grand or even terrible, but because it bewildered him; it was not the Golden City or even hell; it was Limbo.
He had one shock of sentiment, when he turned that wonderful corner of Fleet Street and saw St. Paul's sitting in the sky.
Then with a sour grin he asked himself what was the corresponding monument of the Brunswicks and the Protestant Constitution.
After some warning, he selected a sky-sign of some pill.
Half an hour afterwards his emotions left him with an emptied mind on the same spot.
And it was in a mood of mere idle investigation that he happened to come to a standstill opposite the office of _The Atheist_.
He did not see the word " atheist ", or if he did, it is quite possible that he did not know the meaning of the word.
With a smart journalistic instinct characteristic of all his school, the editor of _The Atheist_ had put first in his paper and most prominently in his window an article called " The Mesopotamian Mythology and its Effects on Syriac Folk Lore.
Mr. Evan MacIan began to read this quite idly, as he would have read a public statement beginning with a young girl dying in Brighton and ending with Bile Beans.
The streets were full of people and empty of adventures.
He might as well know about the gods of Mesopotamia as not; so he flattened his long, lean face against the dim bleak pane of the window and read all there was to read about Mesopotamian gods.
He read how the Mesopotamians had a god named Sho (sometimes pronounced Ji), and that he was described as being very powerful, a striking similarity to some expressions about Jahveh, who is also described as having power.
Evan had never heard of Jahveh in his life, and imagining him to be some other Mesopotamian idol, read on with a dull curiosity.
He learnt that the name Sho, under its third form of Psa, occurs in an early legend which describes how the deity, after the manner of Jupiter on so many occasions, seduced a Virgin and begat a hero.
This hero, whose name is not essential to our existence, was, it was said, the chief hero and Saviour of the Mesopotamian ethical scheme.
Then followed a paragraph giving other examples of such heroes and Saviours being born of some profligate intercourse between God and mortal.
Then followed a paragraph-but Evan did not understand it.
He read it again and then again.
Then he did understand it.
The glass fell in ringing fragments on to the pavement, and Evan sprang over the barrier into the shop, brandishing his stick.
cried little Mr. Turnbull, starting up with hair aflame.
You dirty lunatic, stand up, will you?
Have you any weapons here?
Stand up and fight, I say.
A great light like dawn came into Mr. Turnbull's face.
Behind his red hair and beard he turned deadly pale with pleasure.
Here, after twenty lone years of useless toil, he had his reward.
Someone was angry with the paper.
He bounded to his feet like a boy; he saw a new youth opening before him.
And as not unfrequently happens to middle-aged gentlemen when they see a new youth opening before them, he found himself in the presence of the police.
The policemen, after some ponderous questionings, collared both the two enthusiasts.
They were more respectful, however, to the young man who had smashed the window, than to the miscreant who had had his window smashed.
There was an air of refined mystery about Evan MacIan, which did not exist in the irate little shopkeeper, an air of refined mystery which appealed to the policemen, for policemen, like most other English types, are at once snobs and poets.
MacIan might possibly be a gentleman, they felt; the editor manifestly was not.
And the editor's fine rational republican appeals to his respect for law, and his ardour to be tried by his fellow citizens, seemed to the police quite as much gibberish as Evan's mysticism could have done.
The police were not used to hearing principles, even the principles of their own existence.
The police magistrate, before whom they were hurried and tried, was a Mr. Cumberland Vane, a cheerful, middle-aged gentleman, honourably celebrated for the lightness of his sentences and the lightness of his conversation.
He was a tall, spruce man, with a twist of black moustache and incomparable morning dress.
He looked like a gentleman, and yet, somehow, like a stage gentleman.
He had often treated serious crimes against mere order or property with a humane flippancy.
Hence, about the mere breaking of an editor's window, he was almost uproarious.
said the magistrate, sparkling.
Mr. Vane shifted sharply in his seat, dropping the eye-glass out of his eye in a momentary and not unmanly embarrassment.
Evan opened his great, blue eyes; " God," he began.
Religion is-a-too personal a matter to be mentioned in such a place.
answered the Highlander, " then what did those policemen swear by just now?
But to talk in a public place about one's most sacred and private sentiments-well, I call it bad taste.
I call it irreverent, and I'm not specially orthodox either.
Evan turned a little pale at the mere memory, but he answered with the same cold and deadly literalism that he showed throughout.
Don't imagine that it will impress me.
The most religious people are not those who talk about it.
You answer the questions and do nothing else.
So I have no other answer.
Vane continued to gaze at him with a sternness not habitual to him.
If you had simply expressed regret for what you had done, I should have been strongly inclined to dismiss the matter as an outbreak of temper.
Even now, if you say that you are sorry I shall only ----
This man only gave expression to his sincere belief.
Are you necessarily in possession of the truth?
The magistrate broke into a contemptuous laugh.
Evan MacIan plunged his hands into his loose grey garment and drew out a queer looking leather purse.
It contained exactly twelve sovereigns.
He paid down the ten, coin by coin, in silence, and equally silently returned the remaining two to the receptacle.
Then he said, " May I say a word, your worship?
Cumberland Vane seemed half hypnotized with the silence and automatic movements of the stranger; he made a movement with his head which might have been either " yes " or " no ".
It may be excused, however, as a mere preliminary to further proceedings, a sort of preface.
Wherever and whenever I meet that man," and he pointed to the editor of _The Atheist_, " whether it be outside this door in ten minutes from now, or twenty years hence in some distant country, wherever and whenever I meet that man, I will fight him.
I will not rush at him like a bully, or bear him down with any brute superiority.
I will fight him like a gentleman; I will fight him as our fathers fought.
He shall choose how, sword or pistol, horse or foot.
But if he refuses, I will write his cowardice on every wall in the world.
If he had said of my mother what he said of the Mother of God, there is not a club of clean men in Europe that would deny my right to call him out.
If he had said it of my wife, you English would yourselves have pardoned me for beating him like a dog in the market place.
Your worship, I have no mother; I have no wife.
I have only that which the poor have equally with the rich; which the lonely have equally with the man of many friends.
To me this whole strange world is homely, because in the heart of it there is a home; to me this cruel world is kindly, because higher than the heavens there is something more human than humanity.
If a man must not fight for this, may he fight for anything?
I would fight for my friend, but if I lost my friend, I should still be there.
I would fight for my country, but if I lost my country, I should still exist.
But if what that devil dreams were true, I should not be-I should burst like a bubble and be gone.
I could not live in that imbecile universe.
Shall I not fight for my own existence?
The magistrate recovered his voice and his presence of mind.
He went into a sort of weary laughter.
Let other people have a chance (laughter).
I trust all that you said about asking Mr. Turnbull to fight, may be regarded as rubbish.
In case of accidents, however, I must bind you over to keep the peace.
This rather wild gentleman promises that he will not attack me with any ordinary assault-and if he does, you may be sure the police shall hear of it.
He says he will challenge me to a duel; and I cannot say anything stronger about his mental state than to say that I think that it is highly probable that he will.
But it takes two to make a duel, your worship (renewed laughter).
I do not in the least mind being described on every wall in the world as the coward who would not fight a man in Fleet Street, about whether the Virgin Mary had a parallel in Mesopotamian mythology.
You need not trouble to bind him over to keep the peace.
I bind myself over to keep the peace, and you may rest quite satisfied that there will be no duel with me in it.
Mr. Cumberland Vane rolled about, laughing in a sort of relief.
Perhaps I have taken the thing too seriously.
I should love to see him sending you challenges and to see you smiling.
Evan went out of the Court of Justice free, but strangely shaken, like a sick man.
Any punishment of suppression he would have felt as natural; but the sudden juncture between the laughter of his judge and the laughter of the man he had wronged, made him feel suddenly small, or at least, defeated.
It was really true that the whole modern world regarded his world as a bubble.
No cruelty could have shown it, but their kindness showed it with a ghastly clearness.
As he was brooding, he suddenly became conscious of a small, stern figure, fronting him in silence.
Its eyes were grey and awful, and its beard red.
Evan stood thunderstruck.
He stammered out something, he knew not what; he only guessed it by the answer of the other.
cried the furious Free-thinker.
Haven't you hung atheists, and burned them, and boiled them, and did they ever deny their faith?
Do you think we don't want to fight?
Night and day I have prayed-I have longed-for an atheist revolution-I have longed to see your blood and ours on the streets.
You damned fool, you said things that might have got us locked up for a year, and shadowed by the coppers for half a decade.
If you wanted to fight, why did you tell that ass you wanted to?
I got you out, to fight if you want to.
I swear to you that nothing shall be in my heart or in my head till our swords clash together.
I swear it by the God you have denied, by the Blessed Lady you have blasphemed; I swear it by the seven swords in her heart.
I swear it by the Holy Island where my fathers are, by the honour of my mother, by the secret of my people, and by the chalice of the Blood of God.
The atheist drew up his head.
The evening sky, a dome of solid gold, unflaked even by a single sunset cloud, steeped the meanest sights of London in a strange and mellow light.
It made a little greasy street of St. Martin's Lane look as if it were paved with gold.
And the shop that stood between the pawnshop and the shop of dreary indecency, showed with quite a blaze of old world beauty, for it was, by accident, a shop not unbeautiful in itself.
The front window had a glimmer of bronze and blue steel, lit, as by a few stars, by the sparks of what were alleged to be jewels; for it was in brief, a shop of bric-a-brac and old curiosities.
There is nothing more beautiful than thus to look as it were through the archway of a house; as if the open sky were an interior chamber, and the sun a secret lamp of the place.
I have suggested that the sunset light made everything lovely.
To say that it made the keeper of the curiosity shop lovely would be a tribute to it perhaps too extreme.
It would easily have made him beautiful if he had been merely squalid; if he had been a Jew of the Fagin type.
But he was a Jew of another and much less admirable type; a Jew with a very well-sounding name.
For though there are no hard tests for separating the tares and the wheat of any people, one rude but efficient guide is that the nice Jew is called Moses Solomon, and the nasty Jew is called Thornton Percy.
The keeper of the curiosity shop was of the Thornton Percy branch of the chosen people; he belonged to those Lost Ten Tribes whose industrious object is to lose themselves.
He was a man still young, but already corpulent, with sleek dark hair, heavy handsome clothes, and a full, fat, permanent smile, which looked at the first glance kindly, and at the second cowardly.
The name over his shop was Henry Gordon, but two Scotchmen who were in his shop that evening could come upon no trace of a Scotch accent.
These two Scotchmen in this shop were careful purchasers, but free-handed payers.
The other kept so much in the background in comparison that he looked almost ghostly in his grey cloak or plaid, a tall, sallow, silent young man.
The two Scotchmen were interested in seventeenth-century swords.
They were fastidious about them.
They had a whole armoury of these weapons brought out and rolled clattering about the counter, until they found two of precisely the same length.
Presumably they desired the exact symmetry for some decorative trophy.
Even then they felt the points, poised the swords for balance and bent them in a circle to see that they sprang straight again; which, for decorative purposes, seems carrying realism rather far.
And as you are the challenger, Mr. MacIan, perhaps you had better explain the situation.
The tall Scotchman in grey took a step forward and spoke in a voice quite clear and bold, and yet somehow lifeless, like a man going through an ancient formality.
Words have passed between Mr. Turnbull and myself on a grave and invaluable matter, which can only be atoned for by fighting.
Unfortunately, as the police are in some sense pursuing us, we are hurried, and must fight now and without seconds.
But if you will be so kind as to take us into your little garden and see far play, we shall feel how ----
The shopman recovered himself from a stunning surprise and burst out:
Go home, gentlemen, go home.
Why, what did you quarrel about?
The fat shopkeeper rolled about in his chair with enjoyment.
Well, well my religion is a little respect for humanity, and ----
repeated the secularist, pointing backward to the pornographic bookseller.
I do believe in humanity.
My father died for it under the swords of the Yeomanry.
I am going to die for it, if need be, under that sword on your counter.
But if there is one sight that makes me doubt it it is your foul fat face.
It is hard to believe you were not meant to be ruled like a dog or killed like a cockroach.
Don't try your slave's philosophy on me.
We are going to fight, and we are going to fight in your garden, with your swords.
Raise your voice above a whisper, and I run you through the body.
Turnbull put the bright point of the sword against the gay waistcoat of the dealer, who stood choking with rage and fear, and an astonishment so crushing as to be greater than either.
Be still, I say, or I kill you where you stand.
The man was too frightened to scream, but he struggled wildly, while Evan MacIan, whose long, lean hands were unusually powerful, tightened some old curtain cords round him, strapped a rope gag in his mouth and rolled him on his back on the floor.
What an exquisite summer evening!
MacIan said nothing, but lifting his sword from the counter went out into the sun.
The brilliant light ran along the blades, filling the channels of them with white fire; the combatants stuck their swords in the turf and took off their hats, coats, waistcoats, and boots.
Evan said a short Latin prayer to himself, during which Turnbull made something of a parade of lighting a cigarette which he flung away the instant after, when he saw MacIan apparently standing ready.
Yet MacIan was not exactly ready.
He stood staring like a man stricken with a trance.
And he picked up his sword and made it whistle like a boy's wand.
MacIan made a military salute with his weapon, which Turnbull copied or parodied with an impatient contempt; and in the stillness of the garden the swords came together with a clear sound like a bell.
The instant the blades touched, each felt them tingle to their very points with a personal vitality, as if they were two naked nerves of steel.
Evan had worn throughout an air of apathy, which might have been the stale apathy of one who wants nothing.
But it was indeed the more dreadful apathy of one who wants something and will care for nothing else.
And this was seen suddenly; for the instant Evan engaged he disengaged and lunged with an infernal violence.
His opponent with a desperate promptitude parried and riposted; the parry only just succeeded, the riposte failed.
Something big and unbearable seemed to have broken finally out of Evan in that first murderous lunge, leaving him lighter and cooler and quicker upon his feet.
He fell to again, fiercely still, but now with a fierce caution.
The next moment Turnbull lunged; MacIan seemed to catch the point and throw it away from him, and was thrusting back like a thunderbolt, when a sound paralysed him; another sound beside their ringing weapons.
Turnbull, perhaps from an equal astonishment, perhaps from chivalry, stopped also and forebore to send his sword through his exposed enemy.
A heavy scraping sound, as of a trunk being dragged along a littered floor, came from the dark shop behind them.
We must finish before he gets his gag out.
The blades crossed again with the same sound like song, and the men went to work again with the same white and watchful faces.
Evan, in his impatience, went back a little to his wildness.
He made windmills, as the French duellists say, and though he was probably a shade the better fencer of the two, he found the other's point pass his face twice so close as almost to graze his cheek.
The second time he realized the actual possibility of defeat and pulled himself together under a shock of the sanity of anger.
He narrowed, and, so to speak, tightened his operations: he fenced (as the swordsman's boast goes), in a wedding ring; he turned Turnbull's thrusts with a maddening and almost mechanical click, like that of a machine.
Whenever Turnbull's sword sought to go over that other mere white streak it seemed to be caught in a complex network of steel.
He turned one thrust, turned another, turned another.
Then suddenly he went forward at the lunge with his whole living weight.
Turnbull leaped back, but Evan lunged and lunged and lunged again like a devilish piston rod or battering ram.
And high above all the sound of the struggle there broke into the silent evening a bellowing human voice, nasal, raucous, at the highest pitch of pain.
The gag was broken; and the tongue of terror was loose.
The voice of the screaming shopkeeper was loud enough to drown not only the noise of the swords but all other noises around it, but even through its rending din there seemed to be some other stir or scurry.
And Evan, in the very act of thrusting at Turnbull, saw something in his eyes that made him drop his sword.
The atheist, with his grey eyes at their widest and wildest, was staring straight over his shoulder at the little archway of shop that opened on the street beyond.
And he saw the archway blocked and blackened with strange figures.
With a bound he was beside the little cluster of his clothes and boots that lay on the lawn; he snatched them up, without waiting to put any of them on; and tucking his sword under his other arm, went wildly at the wall at the bottom of the garden and swung himself over it.
Three seconds after he had alighted in his socks on the other side, MacIan alighted beside him, also in his socks and also carrying clothes and sword in a desperate bundle.
They were in a by-street, very lean and lonely itself, but so close to a crowded thoroughfare that they could see the vague masses of vehicles going by, and could even see an individual hansom cab passing the corner at the instant.
Turnbull put his fingers to his mouth like a gutter-snipe and whistled twice.
Even as he did so he could hear the loud voices of the neighbours and the police coming down the garden.
The hansom swung sharply and came tearing down the little lane at his call.
When the cabman saw his fares, however, two wild-haired men in their shirts and socks with naked swords under their arms, he not unnaturally brought his readiness to a rigid stop and stared suspiciously.
Might I arst where you come from, sir?
A second after he spoke MacIan heard a heavy voice on the other side of the wall, saying: " I suppose I'd better get over and look for them.
And a'm gaein'to St. Pancras Station.
The cabman stared, but laughed.
The heavy voice behind the wall said: " Now then, a better back this time, Mr.
And from the shadow of the wall Turnbull crept out.
He had struggled wildly into his coat (leaving his waistcoat on the pavement), and he was with a fierce pale face climbing up the cab behind the cabman.
MacIan had no glimmering notion of what he was up to, but an instinct of discipline, inherited from a hundred men of war, made him stick to his own part and trust the other man's.
Did ye no hear me say St. Pancras Station?
The top of a policeman's helmet appeared above the garden wall.
The cabman did not see it, but he was still suspicious and began:
And just as the red and raging face of a policeman appeared above the wall, Turnbull struck the horse with a terrible cut of the whip and the two went whirling away like a boomerang.
They had spun through seven streets and three or four squares before anything further happened.
Then, in the neighbourhood of Maida Vale, the driver opened the trap and talked through it in a manner not wholly common in conversations through that aperture.
I trust therefore that you have no cause to complain of me if I have deferred until this moment a consultation with you on our present position or future action.
Our present position, Mr. MacIan, I imagine that I am under no special necessity of describing.
We have broken the law and we are fleeing from its officers.
Our future action is a thing about which I myself entertain sufficiently strong views; but I have no right to assume or to anticipate yours, though I may have formed a decided conception of your character and a decided notion of what they will probably be.
Still, by every principle of intellectual justice, I am bound to ask you now and seriously whether you wish to continue our interrupted relations.
MacIan leant his white and rather weary face back upon the cushions in order to speak up through the open door.
It is strongly borne in upon me that you and I, the sole occupants of this runaway cab, are at this moment the two most important people in London, possibly in Europe.
I have been looking at all the streets as we went past, I have been looking at all the shops as we went past, I have been looking at all the churches as we went past.
At first, I felt a little dazed with the vastness of it all.
I could not understand what it all meant.
But now I know exactly what it all means.
This whole civilization is only a dream.
You and I are the realities.
But in symbolism as you use it in this instance, I must, I think, concede a certain truth.
We _must_ fight this thing out somewhere; because, as you truly say, we have found each other's reality.
We _must_ kill each other-or convert each other.
I used to think all Christians were hypocrites, and I felt quite mildly towards them really.
But I know you are sincere-and my soul is mad against you.
In the same way you used, I suppose, to think that all atheists thought atheism would leave them free for immorality-and yet in your heart you tolerated them entirely.
Now you _know_ that I am an honest man, and you are mad against me, as I am against you.
You can't be angry with bad men.
But a good man in the wrong-why one thirsts for his blood.
Yes, you open for me a vista of thought.
They sped on through shining streets that shot by them like arrows.
Mr. Turnbull had evidently a great deal of unused practical talent which was unrolling itself in this ridiculous adventure.
They had got away with such stunning promptitude that the police chase had in all probability not even properly begun.
But in case it had, the amateur cabman chose his dizzy course through London with a strange dexterity.
He did not do what would have first occurred to any ordinary outsider desiring to destroy his tracks.
He did not cut into by-ways or twist his way through mean streets.
His amateur common sense told him that it was precisely the poor street, the side street, that would be likely to remember and report the passing of a hansom cab, like the passing of a royal procession.
He kept chiefly to the great roads, so full of hansoms that a wilder pair than they might easily have passed in the press.
In one of the quieter streets Evan put on his boots.
Towards the top of Albany Street the singular cabman again opened the trap.
Our action must at least go further than it has gone under recent interrupted conditions.
That, I believe, is understood.
Until the actual event comes off we are practically in the position if not of comrades, at least of business partners.
Until the event comes off, therefore I should suggest that quarrelling would be inconvenient and rather inartistic; while the ordinary exchange of politeness between man and man would be not only elegant but uncommonly practical.
All duellists should behave like gentlemen to each other.
But we, by the queerness of our position, are something much more than either duellists or gentlemen.
We are, in the oddest and most exact sense of the term, brothers-in arms.
And he closed the trap once more.
They had reached Finchley Road before he opened it again.
Then he said, " Mr. MacIan, may I offer you a cigar.
It will be a touch of realism.
And he began to smoke in the cab.
The duellists had from their own point of view escaped or conquered the chief powers of the modern world.
They had satisfied the magistrate, they had tied the tradesman neck and heels, and they had left the police behind.
As far as their own feelings went they had melted into a monstrous sea; they were but the fare and driver of one of the million hansoms that fill London streets.
But they had forgotten something; they had forgotten journalism.
It is the one great weakness of journalism as a picture of our modern existence, that it must be a picture made up entirely of exceptions.
We announce on flaring posters that a man has fallen off a scaffolding.
We do not announce on flaring posters that a man has not fallen off a scaffolding.
Yet this latter fact is fundamentally more exciting, as indicating that that moving tower of terror and mystery, a man, is still abroad upon the earth.
That the man has not fallen off a scaffolding is really more sensational; and it is also some thousand times more common.
But journalism cannot reasonably be expected thus to insist upon the permanent miracles.
Busy editors cannot be expected to put on their posters, " Mr. Wilkinson Still Safe," or " Mr. Jones, of Worthing, Not Dead Yet.
They cannot announce the happiness of mankind at all.
They cannot describe all the forks that are not stolen, or all the marriages that are not judiciously dissolved.
Hence the complete picture they give of life is of necessity fallacious; they can only represent what is unusual.
However democratic they may be, they are only concerned with the minority.
The incident of the religious fanatic who broke a window on Ludgate Hill was alone enough to set them up in good copy for the night.
But when the same man was brought before a magistrate and defied his enemy to mortal combat in the open court, then the columns would hardly hold the excruciating information, and the headlines were so large that there was hardly room for any of the text.
The _Daily Telegraph_ headed a column, " A Duel on Divinity," and there was a correspondence afterwards which lasted for months, about whether police magistrates ought to mention religion.
The _Daily Mail_ in its dull, sensible way, headed the events, " Wanted to fight for the Virgin.
Mr. James Douglas, in _The Star_, presuming on his knowledge of philosophical and theological terms, described the Christian's outbreak under the title of " Dualist and Duellist.
The _Daily News_ inserted a colourless account of the matter, but was pursued and eaten up for some weeks, with letters from outlying ministers, headed " Murder and Mariolatry.
But the journalistic temperature was steadily and consistently heated by all these influences; the journalists had tasted blood, prospectively, and were in the mood for more; everything in the matter prepared them for further outbursts of moral indignation.
The next morning, five or six of the great London dailies burst out simultaneously into great blossoms of eloquent leader-writing.
Towards the end all the leaders tended to be the same, but they all began differently.
The _Daily Telegraph_, for instance began, " There will be little difference among our readers or among all truly English and law-abiding men touching the, etc.
The _Daily Mail_ said, " People must learn, in the modern world, to keep their theological differences to themselves.
The _Daily News_ started, " Nothing could be more inimical to the cause of true religion than, etc.
The _Times_ began with something about Celtic disturbances of the equilibrium of Empire, and the _Daily Express_ distinguished itself splendidly by omitting altogether so controversial a matter and substituting a leader about goloshes.
And the morning after that, the editors and the newspapers were in such a state, that, as the phrase is, there was no holding them.
Whatever secret and elvish thing it is that broods over editors and suddenly turns their brains, that thing had seized on the story of the broken glass and the duel in the garden.
It became monstrous and omnipresent, as do in our time the unimportant doings of the sect of the Agapemonites, or as did at an earlier time the dreary dishonesties of the Rhodesian financiers.
Questions were asked about it, and even answered, in the House of Commons.
The Government was solemnly denounced in the papers for not having done something, nobody knew what, to prevent the window being broken.
An enormous subscription was started to reimburse Mr. Gordon, the man who had been gagged in the shop.
Mr. MacIan, one of the combatants, became for some mysterious reason, singly and hugely popular as a comic figure in the comic papers and on the stage of the music hall.
He was always represented (in defiance of fact), with red whiskers, and a very red nose, and in full Highland costume.
And a song, consisting of an unimaginable number of verses, in which his name was rhymed with flat iron, the British Lion, sly'un, dandelion, Spion (With Kop in the next line), was sung to crowded houses every night.
The papers developed a devouring thirst for the capture of the fugitives; and when they had not been caught for forty-eight hours, they suddenly turned the whole matter into a detective mystery.
Yes, the papers were very interesting, and Mr. Turnbull unrolled a whole bundle of them for the amusement of Mr. MacIan as they sat on a high common to the north of London, in the coming of the white dawn.
The darkness in the east had been broken with a bar of grey; the bar of grey was split with a sword of silver and morning lifted itself laboriously over London.
Its bewildering squares and parallelograms were compact and perfect as a Chinese puzzle; an enormous hieroglyphic which man must decipher or die.
Turnbull, the old idealistic democrat, had so often reviled the democracy and reviled them justly for their supineness, their snobbishness, their evil reverence for idle things.
He was right enough; for our democracy has only one great fault; it is not democratic.
And after denouncing so justly average modern men for so many years as sophists and as slaves, he looked down from an empty slope in Hampstead and saw what gods they are.
Their achievement seemed all the more heroic and divine, because it seemed doubtful whether it was worth doing at all.
There seemed to be something greater than mere accuracy in making such a mistake as London.
And what was to be the end of it all?
what was to be the ultimate transformation of this common and incredible London man, this workman on a tram in Battersea, his clerk on an omnibus in Cheapside?
Turnbull, as he stared drearily, murmured to himself the words of the old atheistic and revolutionary Swinburne who had intoxicated his youth:
But no disciple's tongue can say If thou can'st take our sins away.
Turnbull shivered slightly as if behind the earthly morning he felt the evening of the world, the sunset of so many hopes.
Those words were from " Songs before Sunrise ".
But Turnbull's songs at their best were songs after sunrise, and sunrise had been no such great thing after all.
Turnbull shivered again in the sharp morning air.
MacIan was also gazing with his face towards the city, but there was that about his blind and mystical stare that told one, so to speak, that his eyes were turned inwards.
When Turnbull said something to him about London, they seemed to move as at a summons and come out like two householders coming out into their doorways.
There was a somewhat unmeaning silence, and then MacIan said again:
When I first came into it I was frightened of it.
Frightened exactly as one would be frightened at the sight of a man forty feet high.
I am used to big things where I come from, big mountains that seem to fill God's infinity, and the big sea that goes to the end of the world.
But then these things are all shapeless and confused things, not made in any familiar form.
But to see the plain, square, human things as large as that, houses so large and streets so large, and the town itself so large, was like having screwed some devil's magnifying glass into one's eye.
It was like seeing a porridge bowl as big as a house, or a mouse-trap made to catch elephants.
Turnbull said bitterly, " In a book," and the silence fell suddenly between them again.
They were sitting in a sort of litter on the hillside; all the things they had hurriedly collected, in various places, for their flight, were strewn indiscriminately round them.
The two swords with which they had lately sought each other's lives were flung down on the grass at random, like two idle walking-sticks.
Some provisions they had bought last night, at a low public house, in case of undefined contingencies, were tossed about like the materials of an ordinary picnic, here a basket of chocolate, and there a bottle of wine.
And to add to the disorder finally, there were strewn on top of everything, the most disorderly of modern things, newspapers, and more newspapers, and yet again newspapers, the ministers of the modern anarchy.
Turnbull picked up one of them drearily, and took out a pipe.
Turnbull eyed with a certain studious interest, the man who did not understand any of the verbal courtesies; he lit his pipe and blew great clouds out of it.
I am a journalist, and I know.
For the first time, perhaps, for many generations, the English are really more angry about a wrong thing done in England than they are about a wrong thing done in France.
If I did not suspect that you were a genius, I should certainly know you were a blockhead.
I fancy we had better be getting along and collecting our baggage.
And he jumped up and began shoving the luggage into his pockets, or strapping it on to his back.
As he thrust a tin of canned meat, anyhow, into his bursting side pocket, he said casually:
asked MacIan, opening his great grave blue eyes.
MacIan stooped and picked up the other.
But they don't seem to understand the point.
Turnbull tied the last tin of biscuits desperately to himself with string; and then spoke, like a diver girt for plunging, short and sharp.
You must listen to me, not merely because I know the country, which you might learn by looking at a map, but because I know the people of the country, whom you could not know by living here thirty years.
That infernal city down there is awake; and it is awake against us.
All those endless rows of windows and windows are all eyes staring at us.
All those forests of chimneys are fingers pointing at us, as we stand here on the hillside.
This thing has caught on.
For the next six mortal months they will think of nothing but us, as for six mortal months they thought of nothing but the Dreyfus case.
They let starving children, who don't want to die, drop by the score without looking round.
But because two gentlemen, from private feelings of delicacy, do want to die, they will mobilize the army and navy to prevent them.
For half a year or more, you and I, Mr. MacIan, will be an obstacle to every reform in the British Empire.
We shall prevent the Chinese being sent out of the Transvaal and the blocks being stopped in the Strand.
We shall be the conversational substitute when anyone recommends Home Rule, or complains of sky signs.
Therefore, do not imagine, in your innocence, that we have only to melt away among those English hills as a Highland cateran might into your god-forsaken Highland mountains.
We must be eternally on our guard; we must live the hunted life of two distinguished criminals.
We must expect to be recognized as much as if we were Napoleon escaping from Elba.
We must be prepared for our descriptions being sent to every tiny village, and for our faces being recognized by every ambitious policeman.
We must often sleep under the stars as if we were in Africa.
Last and most important we must not dream of effecting our-our final settlement, which will be a thing as famous as the Phoenix Park murders, unless we have made real and precise arrangements for our isolation-I will not say our safety.
We must not, in short, fight until we have thrown them off our scent, if only for a moment.
For, take my word for it, Mr. MacIan, if the British Public once catches us up, the British Public will prevent the duel, if it is only by locking us both up in asylums for the rest of our days.
MacIan was looking at the horizon with a rather misty look.
It makes me feel I was right to ----
Beyond that hill there is comparatively clear country.
Fortunately, I know the part well, and if you will follow me exactly, and, when necessary, on your stomach, we may be able to get ten miles out of London, literally without meeting anyone at all, which will be the best possible beginning, at any rate.
We have provisions for at least two days and two nights, three days if we do it carefully.
We may be able to get fifty or sixty miles away without even walking into an inn door.
I have the biscuits and the tinned meat, and the milk.
You have the chocolate, I think?
We turn under that third bush and so down into the valley.
And he set off ahead at a swinging walk.
Then he stopped suddenly; for he realized that the other was not following.
Evan MacIan was leaning on his sword with a lowering face, like a man suddenly smitten still with doubt.
asked Turnbull, staring in some anger.
demanded the leader, again, his face slowly growing as red as his beard; then he said, suddenly, and in a more human voice, " Are you in pain, MacIan?
A very dreadful thing has just come into my thoughts.
MacIan broke out with a queer and living voice.
A frightful thing has come upon me, and I know it must be now and here.
I must kill you here," he cried, with a sort of tearful rage impossible to describe.
Quick, it will soon be gone.
And he flung the scabbard from him furiously, and stood with the sunlight sparkling along his sword.
Never mind what God meant.
Kindly enlighten my pagan darkness as to what the devil _you_ mean.
In a moment it will be gone," said the madman.
For the dreadful thought is in my mind.
Turnbull's face had a sudden spasm in the sunlight, a change so instantaneous that it left no trace behind it; and his features seemed still carved into a cold stare.
But when he spoke again he seemed like a man who was placidly pretending to misunderstand something that he understood perfectly well.
Come on and fight, I say.
Perhaps you are feeling just as I do.
Turnbull's face flinched again in the fierce sunlight, but his attitude kept its contemptuous ease.
My dear Mr. MacIan, what do you really mean?
MacIan still kept the shining sword-point towards the other's breast.
You mean the same yourself.
We must fight now or else ----
repeated Turnbull, staring at him with an almost blinding gravity.
Turnbull took out his own sword suddenly as if to engage; then planting it point downwards for a moment, he said, " Before we begin, may I ask you a question?
MacIan bowed patiently, but with burning eyes.
How would you feel about the matter if we came not to want to fight at all?
I should feel that because I had been weak, justice had not been done.
And what do you mean by justice, apart from your feelings?
MacIan made a gesture of weary recognition!
asked Turnbull, with a slight smile.
It may not be the devil, it may be some part of God I am not meant to know.
But I had a work to do, and it is making the work difficult.
MacIan burst out like a man driven back and explaining everything.
But when we belong to the Church we belong to something which is outside all of us; which is outside everything you talk about, outside the Cardinals and the Pope.
They belong to it, but it does not belong to them.
If we all fell dead suddenly, the Church would still somehow exist in God.
Confound it all, don't you see that I am more sure of its existence than I am of my own existence?
And yet you ask me to trust my temperament, my own temperament, which can be turned upside down by two bottles of claret or an attack of the jaundice.
You ask me to trust that when it softens towards you and not to trust the thing which I believe to be outside myself and more real than the blood in my body.
If it is only you that like me, surely, also, it is only you that believe in the Catholic Church.
Evan remained in an unmoved and grave attitude.
For the first time MacIan started as if he had not expected the thing that was said to him.
No, I do not think that the movement in me towards you was... was that surface sort of thing.
It may have been something deeper... something strange.
I cannot understand the thing at all.
But understand this and understand it thoroughly, if I loved you my love might be divine.
No, it is not some trifle that we are fighting about.
It is not some superstition or some symbol.
When you wrote those words about Our Lady, you were in that act a wicked man doing a wicked thing.
If I hate you it is because you have hated goodness.
And if I like you... it is because you are good.
Turnbull's face wore an indecipherable expression.
The bright swords crossed, and the first touch of them, travelling down blade and arm, told each combatant that the heart of the other was awakened.
It was not in that way that the swords rang together when they had rushed on each other in the little garden behind the dealer's shop.
There was a pause, and then MacIan made a movement as if to thrust, and almost at the same moment Turnbull suddenly and calmly dropped his sword.
Evan stared round in an unusual bewilderment, and then realized that a large man in pale clothes and a Panama hat was strolling serenely towards them.
When the combatants, with crossed swords, became suddenly conscious of a third party, they each made the same movement.
It was as quick as the snap of a pistol, and they altered it instantaneously and recovered their original pose, but they had both made it, they had both seen it, and they both knew what it was.
It was not a movement of anger at being interrupted.
Say or think what they would, it was a movement of relief.
A force within them, and yet quite beyond them, seemed slowly and pitilessly washing away the adamant of their oath.
As mistaken lovers might watch the inevitable sunset of first love, these men watched the sunset of their first hatred.
Their hearts were growing weaker and weaker against each other.
When their weapons rang and riposted in the little London garden, they could have been very certain that if a third party had interrupted them something at least would have happened.
They would have killed each other or they would have killed him.
But now nothing could undo or deny that flash of fact, that for a second they had been glad to be interrupted.
Some new and strange thing was rising higher and higher in their hearts like a high sea at night.
It was something that seemed all the more merciless, because it might turn out an enormous mercy.
Was there, perhaps, some such fatalism in friendship as all lovers talk about in love?
Did God make men love each other against their will?
The voice was too polite for good manners.
It was incongruous with the eccentric spectacle of the duellists which ought to have startled a sane and free man.
It was also incongruous with the full and healthy, though rather loose physique of the man who spoke.
At the first glance he looked a fine animal, with curling gold beard and hair, and blue eyes, unusually bright.
It was only at the second glance that the mind felt a sudden and perhaps unmeaning irritation at the way in which the gold beard retreated backwards into the waistcoat, and the way in which the finely shaped nose went forward as if smelling its way.
And it was only, perhaps, at the hundredth glance that the bright blue eyes, which normally before and after the instant seemed brilliant with intelligence, seemed as it were to be brilliant with idiocy.
He was a heavy, healthy-looking man, who looked all the larger because of the loose, light coloured clothes that he wore, and that had in their extreme lightness and looseness, almost a touch of the tropics.
But a closer examination of his attire would have shown that even in the tropics it would have been unique; but it was all woven according to some hygienic texture which no human being had ever heard of before, and which was absolutely necessary even for a day's health.
He wore a huge broad-brimmed hat, equally hygienic, very much at the back of his head, and his voice coming out of so heavy and hearty a type of man was, as I have said, startlingly shrill and deferential.
Now, you don't mind my saying this, do you?
The face of both combatants remained somewhat solid under this appeal.
But the stranger, probably taking their silence for a gathering shame, continued with a kind of gaiety:
Well, of course, when one is young, one is rather romantic.
Do you know what I always say to young people?
A blank silence followed this gay inquiry.
Then Turnbull said in a colourless voice:
I understand that you two people want to fight a duel.
I suppose you aren't much up in the modern world.
We've quite outgrown duelling, you know.
In fact, Tolstoy tells us that we shall soon outgrow war, which he says is simply a duel between nations.
But there is no doubt about our having outgrown duelling.
Waiting for some effect upon his wooden auditors, the stranger stood beaming for a moment and then resumed:
Now, do you know what I always say to Roman Catholics?
It seemed to be a characteristic of the hearty, hygienic gentleman that he always forgot the speech he had made the moment before.
Without enlarging further on the fixed form of his appeal to the Church of Rome, he laughed cordially at Turnbull's answer; then his wandering blue eyes caught the sunlight on the swords, and he assumed a good-humoured gravity.
Every man has a higher nature and a lower nature.
Now, let us put the matter very plainly, and without any romantic nonsense about honour or anything of that sort.
Is not bloodshed a great sin?
said MacIan, with a sudden asperity.
What is the good of words if they aren't important enough to quarrel over?
Why do we choose one word more than another if there isn't any difference between them?
If you called a woman a chimpanzee instead of an angel, wouldn't there be a quarrel about a word?
If you're not going to argue about words, what are you going to argue about?
Are you going to convey your meaning to me by moving your ears?
The Church and the heresies always used to fight about words, because they are the only things worth fighting about.
I say that murder is a sin, and bloodshed is not, and that there is as much difference between those words as there is between the word'yes'and the word'no '; or rather more difference, for'yes'and'no ', at least, belong to the same category.
Murder is a spiritual incident.
Bloodshed is a physical incident.
A surgeon commits bloodshed.
said the large man, wagging his head.
MacIan made a violent gesture; and Turnbull broke into open laughter.
The peacemaker did not seem to be in the least annoyed, but continued in unabated enjoyment.
Now Tolstoy has shown that force is no remedy; so you see the position in which I am placed.
I am doing my best to stop what I'm sure you won't mind my calling this really useless violence, this really quite wrong violence of yours.
But it's against my principles to call in the police against you, because the police are still on a lower moral plane, so to speak, because, in short, the police undoubtedly sometimes employ force.
Tolstoy has shown that violence merely breeds violence in the person towards whom it is used, whereas Love, on the other hand, breeds Love.
So you see how I am placed.
I am reduced to use Love in order to stop you.
I am obliged to use Love.
He gave to the word an indescribable sound of something hard and heavy, as if he were saying " boots ".
Turnbull suddenly gripped his sword and said, shortly, " I see how you are placed quite well, sir.
You will not call the police.
Mr. MacIan, shall we engage?
MacIan plucked his sword out of the grass.
It is against the principle of love.
How you, sir, who pretend to be a Christian...
MacIan turned upon him with a white face and bitter lip.
You seem to me colder than a lump of stone; but I am willing to believe that you may at some time have loved a cat, or a dog, or a child.
When you were a baby, I suppose you loved your mother.
Talk about love, then, till the world is sick of the word.
But don't you talk about Christianity.
Don't you dare to say one word, white or black, about it.
Christianity is, as far as you are concerned, a horrible mystery.
Keep clear of it, keep silent upon it, as you would upon an abomination.
It is a thing that has made men slay and torture each other; and you will never know why.
It is a thing that has made men do evil that good might come; and you will never understand the evil, let alone the good.
Christianity is a thing that could only make you vomit, till you are other than you are.
I would not justify it to you even if I could.
Hate it, in God's name, as Turnbull does, who is a man.
It is a monstrous thing, for which men die.
And if you will stand here and talk about love for another ten minutes it is very probable that you will see a man die for it.
Turnbull was busy settling something loose in his elaborate hilt, and the pause was broken by the stranger.
he said, with a heated face.
cried the man, in a sort of dismay.
There was another silence, and he said again, airily:
Have you ever read _The Quintessence of Ibsenism_?
Of course he went very wrong over the war.
Turnbull, with a bent, flushed face, was tying up the loose piece of the pommel with string.
With the string in his teeth, he said, " Oh, make up your damned mind and clear out!
I rather feel that in a case so extreme as this..." and he went slowly away.
As he disappeared among the trees, they heard him murmuring in a sing-song voice, " New occasions teach new duties," out of a poem by James Russell Lowell.
inquired the other, finishing his mending and wrapping the rest of the string round his hand to get a firmer grip.
If that man had not tried to stop us... I might... I might have stopped.
Give up vows and dogmas, and fixed things, and you may grow like That.
You may learn, also, that fog of false philosophy.
You may grow fond of that mire of crawling, cowardly morals, and you may come to think a blow bad, because it hurts, and not because it humiliates.
You may come to think murder wrong, because it is violent, and not because it is unjust.
Oh, you blasphemer of the good, an hour ago I almost loved you!
But do not fear for me now.
I have heard the word Love pronounced in _his_ intonation; and I know exactly what it means.
The swords caught on each other with a dreadful clang and jar, full of the old energy and hate; and at once plunged and replunged.
Once more each man's heart had become the magnet of a mad sword.
Suddenly, furious as they were, they were frozen for a moment motionless.
asked the Highlander, hoarsely.
Between high hedges in Hertfordshire, hedges so high as to create a kind of grove, two men were running.
They did not run in a scampering or feverish manner, but in the steady swing of the pendulum.
Across the great plains and uplands to the right and left of the lane, a long tide of sunset light rolled like a sea of ruby, lighting up the long terraces of the hills and picking out the few windows of the scattered hamlets in startling blood-red sparks.
But the lane was cut deep in the hill and remained in an abrupt shadow.
The two men running in it had an impression not uncommonly experienced between those wild green English walls; a sense of being led between the walls of a maze.
Though their pace was steady it was vigorous; their faces were heated and their eyes fixed and bright.
There was, indeed, something a little mad in the contrast between the evening's stillness over the empty country-side, and these two figures fleeing wildly from nothing.
They had the look of two lunatics, possibly they were.
said Turnbull, with civility.
Rapid movement is essential," answered MacIan, who never saw a joke in his life.
Turnbull broke out into a short laugh, and silence fell between them, the panting silence of runners.
Then MacIan said: " We run better than any of those policemen.
Why do you make your policemen so fat?
You'll see they will be as lean as rakes by the time they catch us.
They will look like your friend, Cardinal Manning.
MacIan turned his long equine face inquiringly.
he said, for Turnbull had gone silent suddenly, and seemed to be listening intently as he ran as a horse does with his ears turned back.
MacIan slackened his trot, and turned his head to the trail they had left behind them.
Across two or three billows of the up and down lane came along the ground the unmistakable throbbing of horses'hoofs.
Shall we turn on them with our points?
We must put it off if we can.
And he stared and peered about him between the bushes.
Why, here's the very thing.
He suddenly swung himself up the high bank on one side of the lane.
It was almost as high and smooth as a wall, and on the top of it the black hedge stood out over them as an angle, almost like a thatched roof of the lane.
And the burning evening sky looked down at them through the tangle with red eyes as of an army of goblins.
Turnbull hoisted himself up and broke the hedge with his body.
As his head and shoulders rose above it they turned to flame in the full glow as if lit up by an immense firelight.
His red hair and beard looked almost scarlet, and his pale face as bright as a boy's.
Something violent, something that was at once love and hatred, surged in the strange heart of the Gael below him.
He had an unutterable sense of epic importance, as if he were somehow lifting all humanity into a prouder and more passionate region of the air.
As he swung himself up also into the evening light he felt as if he were rising on enormous wings.
Legends of the morning of the world which he had heard in childhood or read in youth came back upon him in a cloudy splendour, purple tales of wrath and friendship, like Roland and Oliver, or Balin and Balan, reminding him of emotional entanglements.
Men who had loved each other and then fought each other; men who had fought each other and then loved each other, together made a mixed but monstrous sense of momentousness.
The crimson seas of the sunset seemed to him like a bursting out of some sacred blood, as if the heart of the world had broken.
Turnbull was wholly unaffected by any written or spoken poetry; his was a powerful and prosaic mind.
But even upon him there came for the moment something out of the earth and the passionate ends of the sky.
The only evidence was in his voice, which was still practical but a shade more quiet.
Keeping himself free from the tangle of the hedge he strolled across a triangle of obscure kitchen garden, and approached a dismal shed or lodge a yard or two beyond it.
It was a weather-stained hut of grey wood, which with all its desolation retained a tag or two of trivial ornament, which suggested that the thing had once been a sort of summer-house, and the place probably a sort of garden.
MacIan looked at him gravely for a few moments.
In the sudden silence, the drumming of the distant horses grew louder and louder with inconceivable rapidity, and the cavalcade of police rushed by below them in the lane, almost with the roar and rattle of an express train.
Turnbull said nothing, but turned and looked out of the foolish lattice of the little windows, then he said, " We must have food and sleep first.
When the last echo of their eluded pursuers had died in the distant uplands, Turnbull began to unpack the provisions with the easy air of a man at a picnic.
He had just laid out the last items, put a bottle of wine on the floor, and a tin of salmon on the window-ledge, when the bottomless silence of that forgotten place was broken.
And it was broken by three heavy blows of a stick delivered upon the door.
Turnbull looked up in the act of opening a tin and stared silently at his companion.
MacIan's long, lean mouth had shut hard.
Again the sound of the wooden stick reverberated on the wooden door.
It was a curious sound and on consideration did not resemble the ordinary effects of knocking on a door for admittance.
It was rather as if the point of a stick were plunged again and again at the panels in an absurd attempt to make a hole in them.
A wild look sprang into MacIan's eyes and he got up half stupidly, with a kind of stagger, put his hand out and caught one of the swords.
But he also picked up a sword as he stepped to open it.
He paused one moment with his hand on the handle and then flung the door open.
Almost as he did so the ferrule of an ordinary bamboo cane came at his eyes, so that he had actually to parry it with the naked weapon in his hands.
As the two touched, the point of the stick was dropped very abruptly, and the man with the stick stepped hurriedly back.
Against the heraldic background of sprawling crimson and gold offered him by the expiring sunset, the figure of the man with the stick showed at first merely black and fantastic.
He was a small man with two wisps of long hair that curled up on each side, and seen in silhouette, looked like horns.
He had a bow tie so big that the two ends showed on each side of his neck like unnatural stunted wings.
He had his long black cane still tilted in his hand like a fencing foil and half presented at the open door.
His large straw hat had fallen behind him as he leapt backwards.
cried the stranger in a high shrill voice, brandishing his cane defensively.
Seen more fully, with the evening light on his face, the strange man looked a little less like a goblin.
He wore a square pale-grey jacket suit, on which the grey butterfly tie was the only indisputable touch of affectation.
Against the great sunset his figure had looked merely small: seen in a more equal light it looked tolerably compact and shapely.
His reddish-brown hair, combed into two great curls, looked like the long, slow curling hair of the women in some pre-Raphaelite pictures.
But within this feminine frame of hair his face was unexpectedly impudent, like a monkey's.
he said, in a sharp small voice.
Turnbull was coolly curling his red moustache, and the stranger stared from one to the other, temporarily stunned by their innocent assurance.
Then turning to the stranger he said firmly, " I am sorry, sir, but we have something to do that must be done.
And I may as well tell you at the beginning and to avoid waste of time or language, that we cannot admit any interference.
The little man had a dawning expression of understanding and stooped and picked up the unused bottle of wine, eyeing it curiously.
We are forced to fight a duel.
We are forced by honour and an internal intellectual need.
Do not, for your own sake, attempt to stop us.
I know all the excellent and ethical things that you will want to say to us.
I know all about the essential requirements of civil order: I have written leading articles about them all my life.
I know all about the sacredness of human life; I have bored all my friends with it.
Try and understand our position.
This man and I are alone in the modern world in that we think that God is essentially important.
I think He does not exist; that is where the importance comes in for me.
But this man thinks that He does exist, and thinking that very properly thinks Him more important than anything else.
Now we wish to make a great demonstration and assertion-something that will set the world on fire like the first Christian persecutions.
If you like, we are attempting a mutual martyrdom.
The papers have posted up every town against us.
Scotland Yard has fortified every police station with our enemies; we are driven therefore to the edge of a lonely lane, and indirectly to taking liberties with your summer-house in order to arrange our...
roared the little man in the butterfly necktie.
Are you really the two tomfools I have read of in all the papers?
Are you the two people who wanted to spit each other in the Police Court?
The little man slung the bottle of wine twenty yards away like a stone.
I've got the best Beaune within fifty miles of here.
You're the very men I wanted to see.
Even Turnbull, with his typical invulnerability, was a little taken aback by this boisterous and almost brutal hospitality.
howled the little man, dancing with delight.
I'll give you a green smooth lawn and your choice of swords and pistols.
Why, you fools, I adore fighting!
It's the only good thing in God's world!
I've walked about these damned fields and longed to see somebody cut up and killed and the blood running.
And he made sudden lunges with his stick at the trunk of a neighbouring tree so that the ferrule made fierce prints and punctures in the bark.
said the small fighter, brandishing his wooden weapon.
The little man stared an instant and then said: " Yes," and Turnbull broke into a guffaw.
cried the little man, tucking his stick under his arm and taking quite suddenly to his heels.
Confound me, I'll see both of you eat and then I'll see one of you die.
Lord bless me, the gods must exist after all-they have sent me one of my day-dreams!
He had gone flying along a winding path between the borders of the kitchen garden, and in the increasing twilight he was as hard to follow as a flying hare.
But at length the path after many twists betrayed its purpose and led abruptly up two or three steps to the door of a tiny but very clean cottage.
There was nothing about the outside to distinguish it from other cottages, except indeed its ominous cleanliness and one thing that was out of all the custom and tradition of all cottages under the sun.
In the middle of the little garden among the stocks and marigolds there surged up in shapeless stone a South Sea Island idol.
There was something gross and even evil in that eyeless and alien god among the most innocent of the English flowers.
cried the creature again.
Whether or no it was better inside it was at least a surprise.
The moment the two duellists had pushed open the door of that inoffensive, whitewashed cottage they found that its interior was lined with fiery gold.
It was like stepping into a chamber in the Arabian Nights.
The door that closed behind them shut out England and all the energies of the West.
The ornaments that shone and shimmered on every side of them were subtly mixed from many periods and lands, but were all oriental.
Cruel Assyrian bas-reliefs ran along the sides of the passage; cruel Turkish swords and daggers glinted above and below them; the two were separated by ages and fallen civilizations.
Yet they seemed to sympathize since they were both harmonious and both merciless.
The house seemed to consist of chamber within chamber and created that impression as of a dream which belongs also to the Arabian Nights themselves.
The innermost room of all was like the inside of a jewel.
The little man who owned it all threw himself on a heap of scarlet and golden cushions and struck his hands together.
A negro in a white robe and turban appeared suddenly and silently behind them.
Send up the very best wine and dinner at once.
And Selim, one of these gentlemen will probably die tomorrow.
Make arrangements, please.
The negro bowed and withdrew.
Evan MacIan came out the next morning into the little garden to a fresh silver day, his long face looking more austere than ever in that cold light, his eyelids a little heavy.
He carried one of the swords.
Turnbull was in the little house behind him, demolishing the end of an early breakfast and humming a tune to himself, which could be heard through the open window.
A moment or two later he leapt to his feet and came out into the sunlight, still munching toast, his own sword stuck under his arm like a walking-stick.
Their eccentric host had vanished from sight, with a polite gesture, some twenty minutes before.
It was with a start, therefore, that they came upon the man himself already in the garden.
They were all the more startled because of the still posture in which they found him.
He was on his knees in front of the stone idol, rigid and motionless, like a saint in a trance or ecstasy.
Yet when Turnbull's tread broke a twig, he was on his feet in a flash.
Let us go on to the lawn behind.
And he ducked rapidly round the statue to an open space of grass on the other side of it.
Then he made a gesture towards the heavy stone figure on the pedestal which had now its blank and shapeless back turned towards them.
MacIan turned his blue, blinking eyes, which seemed still misty with sleep (or sleeplessness) towards the idol, but his brows drew together.
The little man with the long hair also had his eyes on the back view of the god.
His eyes were at once liquid and burning, and he rubbed his hands slowly against each other.
I often think that this blank thing is his real face, watching, though it cannot be watched.
Yes, I think he looks nice from behind.
He looks more cruel from behind, don't you think?
Perhaps it was his will, for he loves blood; and on that stone in front of him men have been butchered by hundreds in the fierce, feasting islands of the South.
In this cursed, craven place I have not been permitted to kill men on his altar.
Only rabbits and cats, sometimes.
In the stillness MacIan made a sudden movement, unmeaning apparently, and then remained rigid.
Today his will is done on earth as it is in heaven.
Men, men, men will bleed before him today.
And he bit his forefinger in a kind of fever.
Still, the two duellists stood with their swords as heavily as statues, and the silence seemed to cool the eccentric and call him back to more rational speech.
Let us confine ourselves to the unquestioned.
You have found your way, gentlemen, by a beautiful accident, to the house of the only man in England (probably) who will favour and encourage your most reasonable project.
From Cornwall to Cape Wrath this county is one horrible, solid block of humanitarianism.
You will find men who will defend this or that war in a distant continent.
They will defend it on the contemptible ground of commerce or the more contemptible ground of social good.
But do not fancy that you will find one other person who will comprehend a strong man taking the sword in his hand and wiping out his enemy.
My name is Wimpey, Morrice Wimpey.
I had a Fellowship at Magdalen.
But I assure you I had to drop it, owing to my having said something in a public lecture infringing the popular prejudice against those great gentlemen, the assassins of the Italian Renaissance.
They let me say it at dinner and so on, and seemed to like it.
But in a public lecture... so inconsistent.
Well, as I say, here is your only refuge and temple of honour.
Here you can fall back on that naked and awful arbitration which is the only thing that balances the stars-a still, continuous violence.
Victory is the only ultimate fact.
Carthage _was_ destroyed, the Red Indians are being exterminated: that is the single certainty.
In an hour from now that sun will still be shining and that grass growing, and one of you will be conquered; one of you will be the conqueror.
When it has been done, nothing will alter it.
Heroes, I give you the hospitality fit for heroes.
And I salute the survivor.
The two men took their swords.
Then MacIan said steadily: " Mr. Turnbull, lend me your sword a moment.
Turnbull, with a questioning glance, handed him the weapon.
MacIan took the second sword in his left hand and, with a violent gesture, hurled it at the feet of little Mr. Wimpey.
he said in a loud, harsh voice.
Wimpey took a step backward, and bewildered words bubbled on his lips.
The little man turned to Turnbull with a gesture, demanding judgement or protection.
Fight, if you're so fond of all that filthy philosophy!
If winning is everything, go in and win!
If the weak must go to the wall, go to the wall!
Fight, or if you won't fight-run!
And he ran at Wimpey, with blazing eyes.
Wimpey staggered back a few paces like a man struggling with his own limbs.
Then he felt the furious Scotchman coming at him like an express train, doubling his size every second, with eyes as big as windows and a sword as bright as the sun.
Something broke inside him, and he found himself running away, tumbling over his own feet in terror, and crying out as he ran.
shouted Turnbull as MacIan snatched up the sword and joined in the scamper.
The little man plunged like a rabbit among the tall flowers, the two duellists after him.
Turnbull kept at his tail with savage ecstasy, still shooing him like a cat.
But MacIan, as he ran past the South Sea idol, paused an instant to spring upon its pedestal.
For five seconds he strained against the inert mass.
Then it stirred; and he sent it over with a great crash among the flowers, that engulfed it altogether.
Then he went bounding after the runaway.
In the energy of his alarm the ex-Fellow of Magdalen managed to leap the paling of his garden.
The two pursuers went over it after him like flying birds.
He fled frantically down a long lane with his two terrors on his trail till he came to a gap in the hedge and went across a steep meadow like the wind.
The two Scotchmen, as they ran, kept up a cheery bellowing and waved their swords.
Up three slanting meadows, down four slanting meadows on the other side, across another road, across a heath of snapping bracken, through a wood, across another road, and to the brink of a big pool, they pursued the flying philosopher.
But when he came to the pool his pace was so precipitate that he could not stop it, and with a kind of lurching stagger, he fell splash into the greasy water.
Getting dripping to his feet, with the water up to his knees, the worshipper of force and victory waded disconsolately to the other side and drew himself on to the bank.
And Turnbull sat down on the grass and went off into reverberations of laughter.
A second afterwards the most extraordinary grimaces were seen to distort the stiff face of MacIan, and unholy sounds came from within.
He had never practised laughing, and it hurt him very much.
At about half past one, under a strong blue sky, Turnbull got up out of the grass and fern in which he had been lying, and his still intermittent laughter ended in a kind of yawn.
I can see the whitewashed walls of some cottages and a kind of corner of the church.
It looks so-I don't know what the word is-so sensible.
Don't fancy I'm under any illusions about Arcadian virtue and the innocent villagers.
Men make beasts of themselves there with drink, but they don't deliberately make devils of themselves with mere talking.
They kill wild animals in the wild woods, but they don't kill cats to the God of Victory.
They don't ----" He broke off and suddenly spat on the ground.
One has to get the taste out of one's mouth.
There was a long pause, and MacIan also lifted his large limbs off the ground-his eyes particularly dreamy.
Turnbull's big blue-grey eyes stood open with a grave astonishment.
Turnbull swung round quite suddenly, and set off towards the village.
Come down to the nearest decent inhabitable pub.
I repeat, this is a case for beer.
We must have the whole of this matter out thoroughly before we go a step farther.
Do you know that an idea has just struck me of great simplicity and of some cogency.
Do not by any means let us drop our intentions of settling our differences with two steel swords.
But do you not think that with two pewter pots we might do what we really have never thought of doing yet-discover what our difference is?
And they set out at an easy swing down the steep road to the village of Grassley-in-the-Hole.
Grassley-in-the-Hole was a rude parallelogram of buildings, with two thoroughfares which might have been called two high streets if it had been possible to call them streets.
One of these ways was higher on the slope than the other, the whole parallelogram lying aslant, so to speak, on the side of the hill.
The upper of these two roads was decorated with a big public house, a butcher's shop, a small public house, a sweetstuff shop, a very small public house, and an illegible signpost.
The lower of the two roads boasted a horse-pond, a post office, a gentleman's garden with very high hedges, a microscopically small public house, and two cottages.
Where all the people lived who supported all the public houses was in this, as in many other English villages, a silent and smiling mystery.
The church lay a little above and beyond the village, with a square grey tower dominating it decisively.
But even the church was scarcely so central and solemn an institution as the large public house, the Valencourt Arms.
And in the Valencourt Arms festivity itself had some solemnity and decorum; and beer was drunk with reverence, as it ought to be.
Into the principal parlour of this place entered two strangers, who found themselves, as is always the case in such hostels, the object, not of fluttered curiosity or pert inquiry, but of steady, ceaseless, devouring ocular study.
They had long coats down to their heels, and carried under each coat something that looked like a stick.
One was tall and dark, the other short and red-haired.
They ordered a pot of ale each.
It is only natural that the fool who wanted us to fight should make us friendly.
Dusk was already dropping, the rustics in the tavern were already lurching and lumbering out of it by twos and threes, crying clamorous good nights to a solitary old toper that remained, before MacIan and Turnbull had reached the really important part of their discussion.
MacIan wore an expression of sad bewilderment not uncommon with him.
It is not merely that I do not believe that nature can guide us.
It is that I do not believe that nature exists.
said MacIan in his monotonous way, settling his pewter pot on the table.
I mean that nobody can discover what the original nature of things would have been if things had not interfered with it.
The first blade of grass began to tear up the earth and eat it; it was interfering with nature, if there is any nature.
The first wild ox began to tear up the grass and eat it; he was interfering with nature, if there is any nature.
In the same way," continued Turnbull, " the human when it asserts its dominance over nature is just as natural as the thing which it destroys.
Turnbull took his head out of his pewter pot in some anger.
The supernatural does not exist.
If the natural does not exist the supernatural obviously can't.
And he yawned a little over his ale.
Turnbull turned for some reason a little red and remarked quickly, " That may be jolly clever, for all I know.
But everyone does know that there is a division between the things that as a matter of fact do commonly happen and the things that don't.
Things that break the evident laws of nature ----
Turnbull struck the table with a sudden hand.
thundered Turnbull, without regarding the interruption.
If I flew up to the ceiling ----
Come outside and ascend into heaven!
He burst the door open on a blue abyss of evening and they stepped out into it: it was suddenly and strangely cool.
For at present you do not understand at all.
We don't seem to mean the same things by the same words.
He stood silent for a second or two and then resumed.
At that moment logically I was right.
And at that moment I knew I was wrong.
Yes, there is a real difference between the natural and the supernatural: if you flew up into that blue sky this instant, I should think that you were moved by God-or the devil.
But if you want to know what I really think... I must explain.
He stopped again, abstractedly boring the point of his sword into the earth, and went on:
The supernatural was not natural, but it was perfectly reasonable.
Nay, the supernatural to me is more reasonable than the natural; for the supernatural is a direct message from God, who is reason.
I was taught that some things are natural and some things divine.
I mean that some things are mechanical and some things divine.
But there is the great difficulty, Turnbull.
The great difficulty is that, according to my teaching, you are divine.
said Turnbull truculently.
A man's free will, I heard, was supernatural.
Turnbull was silent for a moment.
Then he began to speak, but MacIan continued with the same steady voice and sad eyes:
I can understand your disbelieving in it, but why disbelieve in a part of it?
It was all one thing to me.
God had authority because he was God.
Man had authority because he was man.
You cannot prove that God is better than a man; nor can you prove that a man is better than a horse.
Why permit any ordinary thing?
Why do you let a horse be saddled?
Turnbull made a humorous grimace; then he said: " We seem to be talking in a kind of shorthand; but I won't pretend not to understand you.
What you mean is this: that you learnt about all your saints and angels at the same time as you learnt about common morality, from the same people, in the same way.
And you mean to say that if one may be disputed, so may the other.
Well, let that pass for the moment.
But let me ask you a question in turn.
Did not this system of yours, which you swallowed whole, contain all sorts of things that were merely local, the respect for the chief of your clan, or such things; the village ghost, the family feud, or what not?
Did you not take in those things, too, along with your theology?
MacIan stared along the dim village road, down which the last straggler from the inn was trailing his way.
The distinction between the chief and us did exist; but it was never anything like the distinction between the human and the divine, or the human and the animal.
It was more like the distinction between one animal and another.
And he pointed to the half-tipsy yokel who was ploughing down the road.
Then he comes back and drinks ale, and then he sings a song.
All your philosophies and political systems are young compared to him.
All your hoary cathedrals, yes, even the Eternal Church on earth is new compared to him.
The most mouldering gods in the British Museum are new facts beside him.
It is he who in the end shall judge us all.
And MacIan rose to his feet with a vague excitement.
Turnbull broke into a kind of laugh.
But if every man typifies God, there is God.
If every man is an enlightened citizen, there is your enlightened citizen.
The first man one meets is always man.
And in gigantic strides the long, lean Highlander whirled away into the grey twilight, Turnbull following with a good-humoured oath.
The track of the rustic was easy to follow, even in the faltering dark; for he was enlivening his wavering walk with song.
It was an interminable poem, beginning with some unspecified King William, who (it appeared) lived in London town and who after the second rise vanished rather abruptly from the train of thought.
The rest was almost entirely about beer and was thick with local topography of a quite unrecognizable kind.
The singer's step was neither very rapid, nor, indeed, exceptionally secure; so the song grew louder and louder and the two soon overtook him.
He gave them greeting with the elaborate urbanity of the slightly intoxicated.
MacIan, who was vibrating with one of his silent, violent decisions, opened the question without delay.
He explained the philosophic position in words as short and simple as possible.
But the singular old man with the lank red face seemed to think uncommonly little of the short words.
He fixed with a fierce affection upon one or two of the long ones.
he repeated with luxurious scorn.
I know their sort, master.
Don't talk to me about'un.
The grounds of his disdain seemed a little dark and confused; but they were evidently sufficient.
MacIan resumed in some encouragement:
The old man extended a quivering stick in the direction of a distant hill.
Pulled down it was, in the old squire's time, and ----
said the old man with sudden passion.
What they want in England?
What they want in England?
MacIan, your attempt on the primitive innocence does not seem very successful.
What you want, my friend, is your rights.
You don't want any priests or churches.
A vote, a right to speak is what you ----
said the old man, facing round in an irrational frenzy.
I don't want no votin'nor priests.
I say a man's a man; that's what I say.
If a man a'n't a man, what is he?
That's what I say, if a man a'n't a man, what is he?
When I sees a man, I sez'e's a man.
And the old man went on wildly singing into the night.
Turnbull looked at him curiously.
We Catholics have only in that sense got as far as realizing that man is a man.
But your Ibsens and your Zolas and your Shaws and your Tolstoys have not even got so far.
Morning broke in bitter silver along the grey and level plain; and almost as it did so Turnbull and MacIan came out of a low, scrubby wood on to the empty and desolate flats.
They had walked all night.
They had walked all night and talked all night also, and if the subject had been capable of being exhausted they would have exhausted it.
Their long and changing argument had taken them through districts and landscapes equally changing.
They had discussed Haeckel upon hills so high and steep that in spite of the coldness of the night it seemed as if the stars might burn them.
They had explained and re-explained the Massacre of St. Bartholomew in little white lanes walled in with standing corn as with walls of gold.
They had talked about Mr. Kensit in dim and twinkling pine woods, amid the bewildering monotony of the pines.
And it was with the end of a long speech from MacIan, passionately defending the practical achievements and the solid prosperity of the Catholic tradition, that they came out upon the open land.
MacIan had learnt much and thought more since he came out of the cloudy hills of Arisaig.
He had at last begun thoroughly to understand what are the grounds upon which the mass of the modern world solidly disapprove of her creed; and he threw himself into replying to them with a hot intellectual enjoyment.
Take any one of them you like.
You hold that your heretics and sceptics have helped the world forward and handed on a lamp of progress.
Nothing is plainer from real history than that each of your heretics invented a complete cosmos of his own which the next heretic smashed entirely to pieces.
Who knows now exactly what Nestorius taught?
There are only two things that we know for certain about it.
The first is that Nestorius, as a heretic, taught something quite opposite to the teaching of Arius, the heretic who came before him, and something quite useless to James Turnbull, the heretic who comes after.
I defy you to go back to the Free-thinkers of the past and find any habitation for yourself at all.
I defy you to read Godwin or Shelley or the deists of the eighteenth century of the nature-worshipping humanists of the Renaissance, without discovering that you differ from them twice as much as you differ from the Pope.
You are a nineteenth-century sceptic, and you are always telling me that I ignore the cruelty of nature.
If you had been an eighteenth-century sceptic you would have told me that I ignore the kindness and benevolence of nature.
You are an atheist, and you praise the deists of the eighteenth century.
Read them instead of praising them, and you will find that their whole universe stands or falls with the deity.
You are a materialist, and you think Bruno a scientific hero.
See what he said and you will think him an insane mystic.
No, the great Free-thinker, with his genuine ability and honesty, does not in practice destroy Christianity.
What he does destroy is the Free-thinker who went before.
Free-thought may be suggestive, it may be inspiriting, it may have as much as you please of the merits that come from vivacity and variety.
But there is one thing Free-thought can never be by any possibility-Free-thought can never be progressive.
It can never be progressive because it will accept nothing from the past; it begins every time again from the beginning; and it goes every time in a different direction.
All the rational philosophers have gone along different roads, so it is impossible to say which has gone farthest.
Who can discuss whether Emerson was a better optimist than Schopenhauer was pessimist?
It is like asking if this corn is as yellow as that hill is steep.
No; there are only two things that really progress; and they both accept accumulations of authority.
The first is strictly physical science.
The second is the Catholic Church.
said Turnbull sarcastically; " and no doubt the first owes a great deal to the second.
I should not be at all surprised if, when you counted the scientific investigations and discoveries since the fall of Rome, you found that a great mass of them had been made by monks.
But the matter is irrelevant to my meaning.
I say that if you want an example of anything which has progressed in the moral world by the same method as science in the material world, by continually adding to without unsettling what was there before, then I say that there _is_ only one example of it.
Granted that it took millions of books I never read and millions of men I never heard of to discover the electric light.
Still I can see the electric light.
But I cannot see the supreme virtue which is the result of all your theologies and sacraments.
When Italy is mad on art the Church seems too Puritanical; when England is mad on Puritanism the Church seems too artistic.
When you quarrel with us now you class us with kingship and despotism; but when you quarrelled with us first it was because we would not accept the divine despotism of Henry VIII.
The Church always seems to be behind the times, when it is really beyond the times; it is waiting till the last fad shall have seen its last summer.
It keeps the key of a permanent virtue.
said Turnbull with genial contempt.
It is such rubbish that I am not even angry at it.
You say that Christianity is the prop of morals; but what more do you do?
When a doctor attends you and could poison you with a pinch of salt, do you ask whether he is a Christian?
You ask whether he is a gentleman, whether he is an M. D- anything but that.
When a soldier enlists to die for his country or disgrace it, do you ask whether he is a Christian?
You are more likely to ask whether he is Oxford or Cambridge at the boat race.
If you think your creed essential to morals why do you not make it a test for these things?
It seems rather hard that having first been told that our creed must be false because we did use tests, we should now be told that it must be false because we don't.
But I notice that most anti-Christian arguments are in the same inconsistent style.
asked MacIan disdainfully.
Why, the Catholics of the Catholic Middle Ages talked about the virtues of all the virtuous Pagans until humanity was sick of the subject.
No, if you really want to know what we mean when we say that Christianity has a special power of virtue, I will tell you.
The Church is the only thing on earth that can perpetuate a type of virtue and make it something more than a fashion.
The thing is so plain and historical that I hardly think you will ever deny it.
You cannot deny that it is perfectly possible that tomorrow morning, in Ireland or in Italy, there might appear a man not only as good but good in exactly the same way as St. Francis of Assisi.
Very well, now take the other types of human virtue; many of them splendid.
The English gentleman of Elizabeth was chivalrous and idealistic.
But can you stand still here in this meadow and _be_ an English gentleman of Elizabeth?
The austere republican of the eighteenth century, with his stern patriotism and his simple life, was a fine fellow.
But have you ever seen him?
have you ever seen an austere republican?
Only a hundred years have passed and that volcano of revolutionary truth and valour is as cold as the mountains of the moon.
And so it is and so it will be with the ethics which are buzzing down Fleet Street at this instant as I speak.
What phrase would inspire the London clerk or workman just now?
Perhaps that he is a son of the British Empire on which the sun never sets; perhaps that he is a prop of his Trades Union, or a class-conscious proletarian something or other; perhaps merely that he is a gentleman when he obviously is not.
Those names and notions are all honourable; but how long will they last?
Empires break; industrial conditions change; the suburbs will not last for ever.
The Catholic Saint will remain.
But I grant the reasonableness of your query.
You have a right, if you speak as the ordinary man, to ask if you will like the saint.
But as the ordinary man you do like him.
If you dislike him it is not because you are a nice ordinary man, but because you are (if you will excuse me) a sophisticated prig of a Fleet Street editor.
That is just the funny part of it.
The human race has always admired the Catholic virtues, however little it can practise them; and oddly enough it has admired most those of them that the modern world most sharply disputes.
You complain of Catholicism for setting up an ideal of virginity; it did nothing of the kind.
The whole human race set up an ideal of virginity; the Greeks in Athene, the Romans in the Vestal fire, set up an ideal of virginity.
What then is your real quarrel with Catholicism?
Your quarrel can only be, your quarrel really only is, that Catholicism has _achieved_ an ideal of virginity; that it is no longer a mere piece of floating poetry.
I think that as the world goes on new psychological atmospheres are generated, and in these atmospheres it is possible to find delicacies and combinations which in other times would have to be represented by some ruder symbol.
Every man feels the need of some element of purity in sex; perhaps they can only typify purity as the absence of sex.
You will laugh if I suggest that we may have made in Fleet Street an atmosphere in which a man can be so passionate as Sir Lancelot and as pure as Sir Galahad.
But, after all, we have in the modern world erected many such atmospheres.
We have, for instance, a new and imaginative appreciation of children.
But you are quite right; there is a modern worship of children.
And what, I ask you, is this modern worship of children?
What, in the name of all the angels and devils, is it except a worship of virginity?
Why should anyone worship a thing merely because it is small or immature?
No; you have tried to escape from this thing, and the very thing you point to as the goal of your escape is only the thing again.
Am I wrong in saying that these things seem to be eternal?
And it was with these words that they came in sight of the great plains.
They went a little way in silence, and then James Turnbull said suddenly, " But I _cannot_ believe in the thing.
MacIan answered nothing to the speech; perhaps it is unanswerable.
And indeed they scarcely spoke another word to each other all that day.
Moonrise with a great and growing moon opened over all those flats, making them seem flatter and larger than they were, turning them to a lake of blue light.
The two companions trudged across the moonlit plain for half an hour in full silence.
Then MacIan stopped suddenly and planted his sword-point in the ground like one who plants his tent-pole for the night.
Leaving it standing there, he clutched his black-haired skull with his great claws of hands, as was his custom when forcing the pace of his brain.
Then his hands dropped again and he spoke.
The other did not answer, but his silence seemed somehow solid as assent; and MacIan went on conversationally.
Neither noticed that both had instinctively stood still before the sign of the fixed and standing sword.
But he means something-or the other thing, or both.
Whenever we have tried to fight each other something has stopped us.
Whenever we have tried to be reconciled to each other, something has stopped us again.
By the run of our luck we have never had time to be either friends or enemies.
Something always jumped out of the bushes.
Turnbull nodded gravely and glanced round at the huge and hedgeless meadow which fell away towards the horizon into a glimmering high road.
I have not heard a horse-hoof or a footstep or the hoot of a train for miles.
So I think we might stop here and ask for a miracle.
said the atheistic editor with a sort of gusto of disgust.
He eyed the wind-swung sword-hilt in sad meditation and resumed: " What I mean is, we might find out in this quiet place whether there really is any fate or any commandment against our enterprise.
I will engage on my side, like Elijah, to accept a test from heaven.
Turnbull, let us draw swords here in this moonlight and this monstrous solitude.
And if here in this moonlight and solitude there happens anything to interrupt us-if it be lightning striking our sword-blades or a rabbit running under our legs-I will take it as a sign from God and we will shake hands for ever.
Turnbull's mouth twitched in angry humour under his red moustache.
He said: " I will wait for signs from God until I have any signs of His existence; but God-or Fate-forbid that a man of scientific culture should refuse any kind of experiment.
And he plucked his sword-point out of the turf.
Turnbull regarded him for a second and a half with a baffling visage almost black against the moonrise; then his hand made a sharp movement to his hip and his sword shone in the moon.
As old chess-players open every game with established gambits, they opened with a thrust and parry, orthodox and even frankly ineffectual.
But in MacIan's soul more formless storms were gathering, and he made a lunge or two so savage as first to surprise and then to enrage his opponent.
Turnbull ground his teeth, kept his temper, and waiting for the third lunge, and the worst, had almost spitted the lunger when a shrill, small cry came from behind him, a cry such as is not made by any of the beasts that perish.
Turnbull must have been more superstitious than he knew, for he stopped in the act of going forward.
MacIan was brazenly superstitious, and he dropped his sword.
After all, he had challenged the universe to send an interruption; and this was an interruption, whatever else it was.
An instant afterwards the sharp, weak cry was repeated.
This time it was certain that it was human and that it was female.
MacIan stood rolling those great blue Gaelic eyes that contrasted with his dark hair.
So I think we'd better scoot in its direction.
MacIan snatched up his fallen weapon without a word, and the two raced away towards that part of the distant road from which the cry was now constantly renewed.
They had to run over a curve of country that looked smooth but was very rough; a neglected field which they soon found to be full of the tallest grasses and the deepest rabbit-holes.
Moreover, that great curve of the countryside which looked so slow and gentle when you glanced over it, proved to be highly precipitous when you scampered over it; and Turnbull was twice nearly flung on his face.
MacIan, though much heavier, avoided such an overthrow only by having the quick and incalculable feet of the mountaineer; but both of them may be said to have leapt off a low cliff when they leapt into the road.
The moonlight lay on the white road with a more naked and electric glare than on the grey-green upland, and though the scene which it revealed was complicated, it was not difficult to get its first features at a glance.
A small but very neat black-and-yellow motor-car was standing stolidly, slightly to the left of the road.
A somewhat larger light-green motor-car was tipped half-way into a ditch on the same side, and four flushed and staggering men in evening dress were tipped out of it.
Three of them were standing about the road, giving their opinions to the moon with vague but echoing violence.
The fourth, however, had already advanced on the chauffeur of the black-and-yellow car, and was threatening him with a stick.
The chauffeur had risen to defend himself.
By his side sat a young lady.
She was sitting bolt upright, a slender and rigid figure gripping the sides of her seat, and her first few cries had ceased.
She was clad in close-fitting dark costume, a mass of warm brown hair went out in two wings or waves on each side of her forehead; and even at that distance it could be seen that her profile was of the aquiline and eager sort, like a young falcon hardly free of the nest.
Turnbull had concealed in him somewhere a fund of common sense and knowledge of the world of which he himself and his best friends were hardly aware.
He was one of those who take in much of the shows of things absent-mindedly, and in an irrelevant reverie.
As he stood at the door of his editorial shop on Ludgate Hill and meditated on the non-existence of God, he silently absorbed a good deal of varied knowledge about the existence of men.
He had come to know types by instinct and dilemmas with a glance; he saw the crux of the situation in the road, and what he saw made him redouble his pace.
He knew that the men were rich; he knew that they were drunk; and he knew, what was worst of all, that they were fundamentally frightened.
And he knew this also, that no common ruffian (such as attacks ladies in novels) is ever so savage and ruthless as a coarse kind of gentleman when he is really alarmed.
The reason is not recondite; it is simply because the police-court is not such a menacing novelty to the poor ruffian as it is to the rich.
When they came within hail and heard the voices, they confirmed all Turnbull's anticipations.
The man in the middle of the road was shouting in a hoarse and groggy voice that the chauffeur had smashed their car on purpose; that they must get to the Cri that evening, and that he would jolly well have to take them there.
The chauffeur had mildly objected that he was driving a lady.
we'll take care of the lady," said the red-faced young man, and went off into gurgling and almost senile laughter.
By the time the two champions came up, things had grown more serious.
The intoxication of the man talking to the chauffeur had taken one of its perverse and catlike jumps into mere screaming spite and rage.
He lifted his stick and struck at the chauffeur, who caught hold of it, and the drunkard fell backwards, dragging him out of his seat on the car.
Another of the rowdies rushed forward booing in idiot excitement, fell over the chauffeur, and, either by accident or design, kicked him as he lay.
The drunkard got to his feet again; but the chauffeur did not.
The man who had kicked kept a kind of half-witted conscience or cowardice, for he stood staring at the senseless body and murmuring words of inconsequent self-justification, making gestures with his hands as if he were arguing with somebody.
But the other three, with a mere whoop and howl of victory, were boarding the car on three sides at once.
It was exactly at this moment that Turnbull fell among them like one fallen from the sky.
He tore one of the climbers backward by the collar, and with a hearty push sent him staggering over into the ditch upon his nose.
One of the remaining two, who was too far gone to notice anything, continued to clamber ineffectually over the high back of the car, kicking and pouring forth a rivulet of soliloquy.
But the other dropped at the interruption, turned upon Turnbull and began a battering bout of fisticuffs.
At the same moment the man crawled out of the ditch in a masquerade of mud and rushed at his old enemy from behind.
The whole had not taken a second; and an instant after MacIan was in the midst of them.
Turnbull had tossed away his sheathed sword, greatly preferring his hands, except in the avowed etiquette of the duel; for he had learnt to use his hands in the old street-battles of Bradlaugh.
But to MacIan the sword even sheathed was a more natural weapon, and he laid about him on all sides with it as with a stick.
The man who had the walking-stick found his blows parried with promptitude; and a second after, to his great astonishment, found his own stick fly up in the air as by a conjuring trick, with a turn of the swordsman's wrist.
Another of the revellers picked the stick out of the ditch and ran in upon MacIan, calling to his companion to assist him.
With the word the drunkard found his hand that had grasped the stick suddenly twisted and empty; and the stick lay at the feet of his companion on the other side of the road.
MacIan felt a faint stir behind him; the girl had risen to her feet and was leaning forward to stare at the fighters.
Turnbull was still engaged in countering and pommelling with the third young man.
The fourth young man was still engaged with himself, kicking his legs in helpless rotation on the back of the car and talking with melodious rationality.
At length Turnbull's opponent began to back before the battery of his heavy hands, still fighting, for he was the soberest and boldest of the four.
By the time he had risen, Turnbull had come to the rescue of MacIan, who was at bay but belabouring his two enemies handsomely.
The sight of the liberated reserve was to them like that of Blucher at Waterloo; the two set off at a sullen trot down the road, leaving even the walking-stick lying behind them in the moonlight.
MacIan plucked the struggling and aspiring idiot off the back of the car like a stray cat, and left him swaying unsteadily in the moon.
Then he approached the front part of the car in a somewhat embarrassed manner and pulled off his cap.
For some solid seconds the lady and he merely looked at each other, and MacIan had an irrational feeling of being in a picture hung on a wall.
That is, he was motionless, even lifeless, and yet staringly significant, like a picture.
The white moonlight on the road, when he was not looking at it, gave him a vision of the road being white with snow.
The motor-car, when he was not looking at it, gave him a rude impression of a captured coach in the old days of highwaymen.
And he whose whole soul was with the swords and stately manners of the eighteenth century, he who was a Jacobite risen from the dead, had an overwhelming sense of being once more in the picture, when he had so long been out of the picture.
In that short and strong silence he absorbed the lady from head to foot.
He had never really looked at a human being before in his life.
He saw her face and hair first, then that she had long suede gloves; then that there was a fur cap at the back of her brown hair.
He might, perhaps, be excused for this hungry attention.
He had prayed that some sign might come from heaven; and after an almost savage scrutiny he came to the conclusion that his one did.
The lady's instantaneous arrest of speech might need more explaining; but she may well have been stunned with the squalid attack and the abrupt rescue.
Yet it was she who remembered herself first and suddenly called out with self-accusing horror:
They both swung round abruptly and saw that Turnbull, with his recovered sword under his arm-pit, was already lifting the fallen chauffeur into the car.
He was only stunned and was slowly awakening, feebly waving his left arm.
The lady in long gloves and the fur cap leapt out and ran rapidly towards them, only to be reassured by Turnbull, who (unlike many of his school) really knew a little science when he invoked it to redeem the world.
But I'm afraid he won't be able to drive the car for half an hour or so.
But Turnbull was more rational than he, being more indifferent.
If you will tell us where you are going, we will see you safely there and say good night.
The young lady exhibited all the abrupt disturbance of a person who is not commonly disturbed.
She said almost sharply and yet with evident sincerity: " Of course I am awfully grateful to you for all you've done-and there's plenty of room if you'll come in.
Turnbull, with the complete innocence of an absolutely sound motive, immediately jumped into the car; but the girl cast an eye at MacIan, who stood in the road for an instant as if rooted like a tree.
Then he also tumbled his long legs into the tonneau, having that sense of degradedly diving into heaven which so many have known in so many human houses when they consented to stop to tea or were allowed to stop to supper.
The slowly reviving chauffeur was set in the back seat; Turnbull and MacIan had fallen into the middle one; the lady with a steely coolness had taken the driver's seat and all the handles of that headlong machine.
A moment afterwards the engine started, with a throb and leap unfamiliar to Turnbull, who had only once been in a motor during a general election, and utterly unknown to MacIan, who in his present mood thought it was the end of the world.
Almost at the same instant that the car plucked itself out of the mud and whipped away up the road, the man who had been flung into the ditch rose waveringly to his feet.
When he saw the car escaping he ran after it and shouted something which, owing to the increasing distance, could not be heard.
It is awful to reflect that, if his remark was valuable, it is quite lost to the world.
The car shot on up and down the shining moonlit lanes, and there was no sound in it except the occasional click or catch of its machinery; for through some cause or other no soul inside it could think of a word to say.
The lady symbolized her feelings, whatever they were, by urging the machine faster and faster until scattered woodlands went by them in one black blotch and heavy hills and valleys seemed to ripple under the wheels like mere waves.
A little while afterwards this mood seemed to slacken and she fell into a more ordinary pace; but still she did not speak.
Turnbull, who kept a more common and sensible view of the case than anyone else, made some remark about the moonlight; but something indescribable made him also relapse into silence.
All this time MacIan had been in a sort of monstrous delirium, like some fabulous hero snatched up into the moon.
The difference between this experience and common experiences was analogous to that between waking life and a dream.
Yet he did not feel in the least as if he were dreaming; rather the other way; as waking was more actual than dreaming, so this seemed by another degree more actual than waking itself.
But it was another life altogether, like a cosmos with a new dimension.
He felt he had been hurled into some new incarnation: into the midst of new relations, wrongs and rights, with towering responsibilities and almost tragic joys which he had as yet had no time to examine.
Heaven had not merely sent him a message; Heaven itself had opened around him and given him an hour of its own ancient and star-shattering energy.
He had never felt so much alive before; and yet he was like a man in a trance.
And if you had asked him on what his throbbing happiness hung, he could only have told you that it hung on four or five visible facts, as a curtain hangs on four of five fixed nails.
All these facts were to him certain and incredible, like sacraments.
When they had driven half a mile farther, a big shadow was flung across the path, followed by its bulky owner, who eyed the car critically but let it pass.
The silver moonlight picked out a piece or two of pewter ornament on his blue uniform; and as they went by they knew it was a sergeant of police.
Three hundred yards farther on another policeman stepped out into the road as if to stop them, then seemed to doubt his own authority and stepped back again.
The girl was a daughter of the rich; and this police suspicion (under which all the poor live day and night) stung her for the first time into speech.
she cried out in a kind of temper; " this car's going like a snail.
There was a short silence, and then Turnbull said: " It is certainly very odd, you are driving quietly enough.
They passed the next mile and a half swiftly and smoothly; yet among the many things which they passed in the course of it was a clump of eager policemen standing at a cross-road.
As they passed, one of the policemen shouted something to the others; but nothing else happened.
Eight hundred yards farther on, Turnbull stood up suddenly in the swaying car.
he called out, showing his first emotion of that night.
MacIan sat motionless for a few moments and then turned up at his companion a face that was as white as the moon above it.
said MacIan, with a sort of sincere and instinctive astonishment.
And he leant forward and spoke to the lady in the fur cap.
Then the last flattening hammer fell upon poor Evan's embarrassment; for the fluffy brown head with the furry black cap did not turn by a section of the compass.
The wind whipped back a curl of the brown hair so as to necessitate a new theory of aesthetics touching the line of the cheek-bone; but the head did not turn.
The young lady driving her car had half turned her face to listen; and it was not a reverent or a patient face that she showed him.
Her Norman nose was tilted a trifle too high upon the slim stalk of her neck and body.
When MacIan saw that arrogant and uplifted profile pencilled plainly against the moonshine, he accepted an ultimate defeat.
He had expected the angels to despise him if he were wrong, but not to despise him so much as this.
Nothing seemed to waver or flicker in the fair young falcon profile; and it only opened its lips to say, after a silence: " I thought people in our time were supposed to respect each other's religion.
Under the shadow of that arrogant face MacIan could only fall back on the obvious answer: " But what about a man's irreligion?
The face only answered: " Well, you ought to be more broadminded.
If anyone else in the world had said the words, MacIan would have snorted with his equine neigh of scorn.
But in this case he seemed knocked down by a superior simplicity, as if his eccentric attitude were rebuked by the innocence of a child.
He could not dissociate anything that this woman said or did or wore from an idea of spiritual rarity and virtue.
Like most others under the same elemental passion, his soul was at present soaked in ethics.
He could have applied moral terms to the material objects of her environment.
If someone had spoken of " her generous ribbon " or " her chivalrous gloves " or " her merciful shoe-buckle," it would not have seemed to him nonsense.
He was silent, and the girl went on in a lower key as if she were momentarily softened and a little saddened also.
There are such heaps of churches and people thinking different things nowadays, and they all think they are right.
My uncle was a Swedenborgian.
MacIan sat with bowed head, listening hungrily to her voice but hardly to her words, and seeing his great world drama grow smaller and smaller before his eyes till it was no bigger than a child's toy theatre.
She drove in silence a third of a mile before she added, as if completing the sentence: " Anyhow, the whole thing's quite absurd.
The amateur chauffeur had been forced to bring the car to a staggering stoppage, for a file of fat, blue policemen made a wall across the way.
A sergeant came to the side and touched his peaked cap to the lady.
We must not incommode the lady.
asked the young woman, looking straight in front of her along the road.
she asked, with the same frigid clearness.
Men like that always misunderstand.
The sergeant was profoundly disquieted from the beginning at the mere idea of arresting anyone in the company of a great lady; to refuse one of her minor requests was quite beyond his courage.
The police fell back to a few yards behind the car.
Turnbull took up the two swords that were their only luggage; the swords that, after so many half duels, they were now to surrender at last.
MacIan, the blood thundering in his brain at the thought of that instant of farewell, bent over, fumbled at the handle and flung open the door to get out.
He did not get out, because it is dangerous to jump out of a car when it is going at full speed.
And the car was going at full speed, because the young lady, without turning her head or so much as saying a syllable, had driven down a handle that made the machine plunge forward like a buffalo and then fly over the landscape like a greyhound.
The police made one rush to follow, and then dropped so grotesque and hopeless a chase.
Away in the vanishing distance they could see the sergeant furiously making notes.
The open door, still left loose on its hinges, swung and banged quite crazily as they went whizzing up one road and down another.
Nor did MacIan sit down; he stood up stunned and yet staring, as he would have stood up at the trumpet of the Last Day.
A black dot in the distance sprang up a tall black forest, swallowed them and spat them out again at the other end.
A railway bridge grew larger and larger till it leapt upon their backs bellowing, and was in its turn left behind.
Avenues of poplars on both sides of the road chased each other like the figures in a zoetrope.
Now and then with a shock and rattle they went through sleeping moonlit villages, which must have stirred an instant in their sleep as at the passing of a fugitive earthquake.
Sometimes in an outlying house a light in one erratic, unexpected window would give them a nameless hint of the hundred human secrets which they left behind them with their dust.
Sometimes even a slouching rustic would be afoot on the road and would look after them, as after a flying phantom.
But still MacIan stood up staring at earth and heaven; and still the door he had flung open flapped loose like a flag.
Turnbull, after a few minutes of dumb amazement, had yielded to the healthiest element in his nature and gone off into uncontrollable fits of laughter.
The girl had not stirred an inch.
After another half mile that seemed a mere flash, Turnbull leant over and locked the door.
Evan staggered at last into his seat and hid his throbbing head in his hands; and still the car flew on and its driver sat inflexible and silent.
The moon had already gone down, and the whole darkness was faintly troubled with twilight and the first movement of beasts and fowls.
It was that mysterious moment when light is coming as if it were something unknown whose nature one could not guess-a mere alteration in everything.
They looked at the sky and it seemed as dark as ever; then they saw the black shape of a tower or tree against it and knew that it was already grey.
Then a white witch fire began to burn between the black stems of the fir-trees; and, like so many things in nature, though not in books on evolution, the daybreak, when it did come, came much quicker than one would think.
As they came over the hill and down on the other side of it, it is not too much to say that the whole universe of God opened over them and under them, like a thing unfolding to five times its size.
Almost under their feet opened the enormous sea, at the bottom of a steep valley which fell down into a bay; and the sea under their feet blazed at them almost as lustrous and almost as empty as the sky.
The sunrise opened above them like some cosmic explosion, shining and shattering and yet silent; as if the world were blown to pieces without a sound.
Round the rays of the victorious sun swept a sort of rainbow of confused and conquered colours-brown and blue and green and flaming rose-colour; as though gold were driving before it all the colours of the world.
The lines of the landscape down which they sped, were the simple, strict, yet swerving, lines of a rushing river; so that it was almost as if they were being sucked down in a huge still whirlpool.
Turnbull had some such feeling, for he spoke for the first time for many hours.
When, however, they had come into the wide hollow at the bottom of that landslide, the car took a calm and graceful curve along the side of the sea, melted into the fringe of a few trees, and quietly, yet astonishingly, stopped.
A belated light was burning in the broad morning in the window of a sort of lodge-or gate-keepers'cottage; and the girl stood up in the car and turned her splendid face to the sun.
Evan seemed startled by the stillness, like one who had been born amid sound and speed.
He wavered on his long legs as he stood up; he pulled himself together, and the only consequence was that he trembled from head to foot.
Turnbull had already opened the door on his side and jumped out.
The moment he had done so the strange young woman had one more mad movement, and deliberately drove the car a few yards farther.
Then she got out with an almost cruel coolness and began pulling off her long gloves and almost whistling.
Please come in, if you like-but I understood that you had some business.
Evan looked at that lifted face and found it merely lovely; he was far too much of a fool to see that it was working with a final fatigue and that its austerity was agony.
He was even fool enough to ask it a question.
The girl tore off one of her gloves, as if she were tearing off her hand.
Evan's thoughts, that had been piled up to the morning star, abruptly let him down with a crash into the very cellars of the emotional universe.
He remained in a stunned silence for a long time; and that, if he had only known, was the wisest thing that he could possibly do at the moment.
Indeed, the silence and the sunrise had their healing effect, for when the extraordinary lady spoke again, her tone was more friendly and apologetic.
repeated the obstinate and dazed MacIan, " why did you save us from the other men?
The girl's great brown eyes were lit up with a flash that was at once final desperation and the loosening of some private and passionate reserve.
God knows I have had no pleasure in my life, though I am pretty and young and father has plenty of money.
And then people come and tell me that I ought to do things and I do them and it's all drivel.
They want you to do work among the poor; which means reading Ruskin and feeling self-righteous in the best room in a poor tenement.
Or to help some cause or other, which always means bundling people out of crooked houses, in which they've always lived, into straight houses, in which they often die.
And all the time you have inside only the horrid irony of your own empty head and empty heart.
I am to give to the unfortunate, when my whole misfortune is that I have nothing to give.
I am to teach, when I believe nothing at all that I was taught.
I am to save the children from death, and I am not even certain that I should not be better dead.
I suppose if I actually saw a child drowning I should save it.
But that would be from the same motive from which I have saved you, or destroyed you, whichever it is that I have done.
asked Evan, in a low voice.
Then, after a pause, as she stared with a rising colour at the glittering sea, she said: " It can't be described, and yet I am trying to describe it.
It seems to me not only that I am unhappy, but that there is no way of being happy.
Father is not happy, though he is a Member of Parliament ----" She paused a moment and added with a ghost of a smile: " Nor Aunt Mabel, though a man from India has told her the secret of all creeds.
But I may be wrong; there may be a way out.
And for one stark, insane second, I felt that, after all, you had got the way out and that was why the world hated you.
You see, if there were a way out, it would be sure to be something that looked very queer.
Evan put his hand to his forehead and began stumblingly: " Yes, I suppose we do seem ----
Evan stood and rolled his eyes in masculine bewilderment.
Then came the final change in this Proteus, and she put out both her hands for an instant and said in a low tone on which he lived for days and nights:
What you are doing is so mad that it may be quite true.
Somehow one can never really manage to be an atheist.
Turnbull stood staring at the sea; but his shoulders showed that he heard, and after one minute he turned his head.
But the girl had only brushed Evan's hand with hers and had fled up the dark alley by the lodge gate.
Evan stood rooted upon the road, literally like some heavy statue hewn there in the age of the Druids.
It seemed impossible that he should ever move.
Turnbull grew restless with this rigidity, and at last, after calling his companion twice or thrice, went up and clapped him impatiently on one of his big shoulders.
Evan winced and leapt away from him with a repulsion which was not the hate of an unclean thing nor the dread of a dangerous one, but was a spasm of awe and separation from something from which he was now sundered as by the sword of God.
He did not hate the atheist; it is possible that he loved him.
But Turnbull was now something more dreadful than an enemy: he was a thing sealed and devoted-a thing now hopelessly doomed to be either a corpse or an executioner.
asked Turnbull, with his hearty hand still in the air; and yet he knew more about it than his innocent action would allow.
He knows how weak I am, and that I might forget the peril of the faith, forget the face of Our Lady-yes, even with your blow upon her cheek.
But the honour of this earth has just this about it, that it can make a man's heart like iron.
I am from the Lords of the Isles and I dare not be a mere deserter.
Therefore, God has tied me by the chain of my worldly place and word, and there is nothing but fighting now.
She has left her good name and her good sleep and all her habits and dignity flung away on the other side of England in the hope that she may hear of us and that we have broken some hole into heaven.
As he spoke, three solemn footmen came out of the lodge gate and assembled to assist the chauffeur to his room.
The mere sight of them made the two wanderers flee as from a too frightful incongruity, and before they knew where they were, they were well upon the grassy ledge of England that overlooks the Channel.
Evan said suddenly: " Will they let me see her in heaven once in a thousand ages?
and addressed the remark to the editor of _The Atheist_, as on which he would be likely or qualified to answer.
But no answer came; a silence sank between the two.
Turnbull strode sturdily to the edge of the cliff and looked out, his companion following, somewhat more shaken by his recent agitation.
As it happens, I know this part of the south coast pretty well.
And unless I am mistaken there's a way down the cliff just here which will land us on a stretch of firm sand where no one is likely to follow us.
The Highlander made a gesture of assent and came also almost to the edge of the precipice.
The sunrise, which was broadening over sea and shore, was one of those rare and splendid ones in which there seems to be no mist or doubt, and nothing but a universal clarification more and more complete.
All the colours were transparent.
It seemed like a triumphant prophecy of some perfect world where everything being innocent will be intelligible; a world where even our bodies, so to speak, may be as of burning glass.
Such a world is faintly though fiercely figured in the coloured windows of Christian architecture.
The cool voice of his companion cut in upon his monologue, calling to him from a little farther along the cliff, to tell him that he had found the ladder of descent.
It began as a steep and somewhat greasy path, which then tumbled down twenty or thirty feet in the form of a fall of rough stone steps.
After that, there was a rather awkward drop on to a ledge of stone and then the journey was undertaken easily and even elegantly by the remains of an ornamental staircase, such as might have belonged to some long-disused watering-place.
All the time that the two travellers sank from stage to stage of this downward journey, there closed over their heads living bridges and caverns of the most varied foliage, all of which grew greener, redder, or more golden, in the growing sunlight of the morning.
Life, too, of the more moving sort rose at the sun on every side of them.
Birds whirred and fluttered in the undergrowth, as if imprisoned in green cages.
Other birds were shaken up in great clouds from the tree-tops, as if they were blossoms detached and scattered up to heaven.
Animals which Turnbull was too much of a Londoner and MacIan too much of a Northerner to know, slipped by among the tangle or ran pattering up the tree-trunks.
It was down this clamorous ladder of life that they went down to die.
They broke out upon a brown semicircle of sand, so free from human imprint as to justify Turnbull's profession.
They strode out upon it, stuck their swords in the sand, and had a pause too important for speech.
Turnbull eyed the coast curiously for a moment, like one awakening memories of childhood; then he said abruptly, like a man remembering somebody's name: " But, of course, we shall be better off still round the corner of Cragness Point; nobody ever comes there at all.
And picking up his sword again, he began striding towards a big bluff of the rocks which stood out upon their left.
MacIan followed him round the corner and found himself in what was certainly an even finer fencing court, of flat, firm sand, enclosed on three sides by white walls of rock, and on the fourth by the green wall of the advancing sea.
It is highly probable that I may die here.
Do you mind if I light a pipe?
Ten minutes afterwards he came back again, white with his own whirlwind of emotions; Turnbull was quite cheerful and was knocking out the end of his pipe.
They took their places gravely in the very centre of the great square of sand, as if they had thousands of spectators.
Before saluting, MacIan, who, being a mystic, was one inch nearer to Nature, cast his eye round the huge framework of their heroic folly.
The three walls of rock all leant a little outward, though at various angles; but this impression was exaggerated in the direction of the incredible by the heavy load of living trees and thickets which each wall wore on its top like a huge shock of hair.
On all that luxurious crest of life the risen and victorious sun was beating, burnishing it all like gold, and every bird that rose with that sunrise caught a light like a star upon it like the dove of the Holy Spirit.
Imaginative life had never so much crowded upon MacIan.
He felt that he could write whole books about the feelings of a single bird.
He felt that for two centuries he would not tire of being a rabbit.
He was in the Palace of Life, of which the very tapestries and curtains were alive.
Then he recovered himself, and remembered his affairs.
Both men saluted, and iron rang upon iron.
It was exactly at the same moment that he realized that his enemy's left ankle was encircled with a ring of salt water that had crept up to his feet.
said Turnbull, stopping an instant, for he had grown used to every movement of his extraordinary fellow-traveller's face.
MacIan glanced again at that silver anklet of sea-water and then looked beyond at the next promontory round which a deep sea was boiling and leaping.
Then he turned and looked back and saw heavy foam being shaken up to heaven about the base of Cragness Point.
Evan threw away his weapon, and, as his custom was, imprisoned his big head in his hands.
Then he let them fall and said: " Yes, I know what it means; and I think it is the fairest thing.
It is the finger of God-red as blood-still pointing.
But now it points to two graves.
There was a space filled with the sound of the sea, and then MacIan spoke again in a voice pathetically reasonable: " You see, we both saved her-and she told us both to fight-and it would not be just that either should fail and fall alone, while the other ----
cried out Evan, in an extraordinary childish ecstasy.
Turnbull answered not a word, but only took up his fallen sword.
For the third time Evan MacIan looked at those three sides of English cliff hung with their noisy load of life.
He had been at a loss to understand the almost ironical magnificence of all those teeming creatures and tropical colours and smells that smoked happily to heaven.
But now he knew that he was in the closed court of death and that all the gates were sealed.
He drank in the last green and the last red and the last gold, those unique and indescribable things of God, as a man drains good wine at the bottom of his glass.
Then he turned and saluted his enemy once more, and the two stood up and fought till the foam flowed over their knees.
Then MacIan stepped backward suddenly with a splash and held up his hand.
he cried; " I can't help it-fair fighting is more even than promises.
And this is not fair fighting.
asked the other, staring.
You'll be washed away like seaweed before it's above my breeches.
I'll not fight foul for all the girls and angels in the universe.
Just you stand up and fight, and we'll see who will be washed away like seaweed.
You wanted to finish this fight and you shall finish it, or I'll denounce you as a coward to the whole of that assembled company.
Evan looked very doubtful and offered a somewhat wavering weapon; but he was quickly brought back to his senses by his opponent's sword-point, which shot past him, shaving his shoulder by a hair.
By this time the waves were well up Turnbull's thigh, and what was worse, they were beginning to roll and break heavily around them.
But just as Turnbull launched his heaviest stroke, the sea, in which he stood up to his hips, launched a yet heavier one.
A wave breaking beyond the others smote him heavily like a hammer of water.
One leg gave way, he was swung round and sucked into the retreating sea, still gripping his sword.
MacIan put his sword between his teeth and plunged after his disappearing enemy.
He had the sense of having the whole universe on top of him as crest after crest struck him down.
It seemed to him quite a cosmic collapse, as if all the seven heavens were falling on him one after the other.
But he got hold of the atheist's left leg and he did not let it go.
After some ten minutes of foam and frenzy, in which all the senses at once seemed blasted by the sea, Evan found himself laboriously swimming on a low, green swell, with the sword still in his teeth and the editor of _The Atheist_ still under his arm.
What he was going to do he had not even the most glimmering idea; so he merely kept his grip and swam somehow with one hand.
He ducked instinctively as there bulked above him a big, black wave, much higher than any that he had seen.
Then he saw that it was hardly the shape of any possible wave.
Then he saw that it was a fisherman's boat, and, leaping upward, caught hold of the bow.
The boat pitched forward with its stern in the air for just as much time as was needed to see that there was nobody in it.
After a moment or two of desperate clambering, however, there were two people in it, Mr. Evan MacIan, panting and sweating, and Mr. James Turnbull, uncommonly close to being drowned.
After ten minutes'aimless tossing in the empty fishing-boat he recovered, however, stirred, stretched himself, and looked round on the rolling waters.
Then, while taking no notice of the streams of salt water that were pouring from his hair, beard, coat, boots, and trousers, he carefully wiped the wet off his sword-blade to preserve it from the possibilities of rust.
MacIan found two oars in the bottom of the deserted boat and began somewhat drearily to row.
A rainy twilight was clearing to cold silver over the moaning sea, when the battered boat that had rolled and drifted almost aimlessly all night, came within sight of land, though of land which looked almost as lost and savage as the waves.
But it was piercingly cold, and there was, from time to time, a splutter of rain like the splutter of the spray, which seemed almost to freeze as it fell.
MacIan, more at home than his companion in this quite barbarous and elemental sort of adventure, had rowed toilsomely with the heavy oars whenever he saw anything that looked like land; but for the most part had trusted with grim transcendentalism to wind and tide.
When the Highlander began to pull really hard upon the oars, Turnbull craned his dripping red head out of the boat to see the goal of his exertions.
It was a sufficiently uninviting one; nothing so far as could be seen but a steep and shelving bank of shingle, made of loose little pebbles such as children like, but slanting up higher than a house.
On the top of the mound, against the sky line, stood up the brown skeleton of some broken fence or breakwater.
With the grey and watery dawn crawling up behind it, the fence really seemed to say to our philosophic adventurers that they had come at last to the other end of nowhere.
Bent by necessity to his labour, MacIan managed the heavy boat with real power and skill, and when at length he ran it up on a smoother part of the slope it caught and held so that they could clamber out, not sinking farther than their knees into the water and the shingle.
A foot or two farther up their feet found the beach firmer, and a few moments afterwards they were leaning on the ragged breakwater and looking back at the sea they had escaped.
They had a dreary walk across wastes of grey shingle in the grey dawn before they began to come within hail of human fields or roads; nor had they any notion of what fields or roads they would be.
Their boots were beginning to break up and the confusion of stones tried them severely, so that they were glad to lean on their swords, as if they were the staves of pilgrims.
MacIan thought vaguely of a weird ballad of his own country which describes the soul in Purgatory as walking on a plain full of sharp stones, and only saved by its own charities upon earth.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon Every night and all, Sit thee down and put them on, And Christ receive thy soul.
Turnbull had no such lyrical meditations, but he was in an even worse temper.
At length they came to a pale ribbon of road, edged by a shelf of rough and almost colourless turf; and a few feet up the slope there stood grey and weather-stained, one of those big wayside crucifixes which are seldom seen except in Catholic countries.
MacIan put his hand to his head and found that his bonnet was not there.
Turnbull gave one glance at the crucifix-a glance at once sympathetic and bitter, in which was concentrated the whole of Swinburne's poem on the same occasion.
O hidden face of man, whereover The years have woven a viewless veil, If thou wert verily man's lover What did thy love or blood avail?
Thy blood the priests mix poison of, And in gold shekels coin thy love.
Then, leaving MacIan in his attitude of prayer, Turnbull began to look right and left very sharply, like one looking for something.
Suddenly, with a little cry, he saw it and ran forward.
A few yards from them along the road a lean and starved sort of hedge came pitifully to an end.
Caught upon its prickly angle, however, there was a very small and very dirty scrap of paper that might have hung there for months, since it escaped from someone tearing up a letter or making a spill out of a newspaper.
Turnbull snatched at it and found it was the corner of a printed page, very coarsely printed, like a cheap novelette, and just large enough to contain the words: " _et c'est elle qui_ ----
cried Turnbull, waving his fragment; " we are safe at last.
We are somewhere better than England or Eden or Paradise.
MacIan, we are in the Land of the Duel!
said the other, looking at him heavily and with knitted brows, like one almost dazed with the grey doubts of desolate twilight and drifting sea.
cried Turnbull, with a voice like a trumpet, " in the land where things really happen-_Tout arrive en France_.
Look at this little message," and he held out the scrap of paper.
repeated MacIan, and his eyes awoke again in his head like large lamps lighted.
said Turnbull, and all the rhetorical part of him came to the top, his face growing as red as his hair.
France, that has always assailed superstition with the club of Rabelais or the rapier of Voltaire.
France, at whose first council table sits the sublime figure of Julian the Apostate.
France, where a man said only the other day those splendid unanswerable words "with a superb gesture --' we have extinguished in heaven those lights that men shall never light again.'
France that made the crusades.
France that saved the Church and scattered the heresies by the mouths of Bossuet and Massillon.
France, which shows today the conquering march of Catholicism, as brain after brain surrenders to it, Brunetière, Coppée, Hauptmann, Barrès, Bourget, Lemaître.
asserted Turnbull with a sort of rollicking self-exaggeration, very unusual with him, " France, which is one torrent of splendid scepticism from Abelard to Anatole France.
France, where reason and religion clash in one continual tournament.
France, above all, where men understand the pride and passion which have plucked our blades from their scabbards.
Here, at least, we shall not be chased and spied on by sickly parsons and greasy policemen, because we wish to put our lives on the game.
Courage, my friend, we have come to the country of honour.
MacIan did not even notice the incongruous phrase " my friend ", but nodding again and again, drew his sword and flung the scabbard far behind him in the road.
Turnbull glanced at the crucifix with a sort of scowling good-humour and then said: " He may look and see His cross defeated.
A second afterwards the two bright, blood-thirsty weapons made the sign of the cross in horrible parody upon each other.
They had not touched each other twice, however, when upon the hill, above the crucifix, there appeared another horrible parody of its shape; the figure of a man who appeared for an instant waving his outspread arms.
He had vanished in an instant; but MacIan, whose fighting face was set that way, had seen the shape momentarily but quite photographically.
And while it was like a comic repetition of the cross, it was also, in that place and hour, something more incredible.
It had been only instantaneously on the retina of his eye; but unless his eye and mind were going mad together, the figure was that of an ordinary London policeman.
He tried to concentrate his senses on the sword-play; but one half of his brain was wrestling with the puzzle; the apocalyptic and almost seraphic apparition of a stout constable out of Clapham on top of a dreary and deserted hill in France.
He did not, however, have to puzzle long.
Before the duellists had exchanged half a dozen passes, the big, blue policeman appeared once more on the top of the hill, a palpable monstrosity in the eye of heaven.
He was waving only one arm now and seemed to be shouting directions.
At the same moment a mass of blue blocked the corner of the road behind the small, smart figure of Turnbull, and a small company of policemen in the English uniform came up at a kind of half-military double.
Turnbull saw the stare of consternation in his enemy's face and swung round to share its cause.
When he saw it, cool as he was, he staggered back.
he called out in a high, shrill voice of authority, like one who finds a tramp in his own larder.
But why the blue blazes should you interfere, you great blue blundering sausages?
I always heard that they were spry enough in their own way.
This is His Majesty's dominions, same as'Ampstead'eath.
repeated Turnbull, with a sort of dull incredulity.
This is the island called St. Loup, sir, an island in the Channel.
We've been sent down specially from London, as you were such specially distinguished criminals, if you'll allow me to say so.
Which reminds me to warn you that anything you say may be used against you at your trial.
Then leaving MacIan and the policemen equally and instantaneously nailed to the road, he ran a little way along it, leapt off on to a part of the beach, which he had found in his journey to be firmer, and went across it with a clatter of pebbles.
His sudden calculation was successful; the police, unacquainted with the various levels of the loose beach, tried to overtake him by the shorter cut and found themselves, being heavy men, almost up to their knees in shoals of slippery shingle.
Two who had been slower with their bodies were quicker with their minds, and seeing Turnbull's trick, ran along the edge of the road after him.
As they were both good runners, the start they had gained was decisive.
In all this desperate dart and scramble, they still kept hold of their drawn swords, which now, indeed, in the vigorous phrase of Bunyan, seemed almost to grow out of their hands.
They had run another half mile or so when it became apparent that they were entering a sort of scattered village.
One or two whitewashed cottages and even a shop had appeared along the side of the road.
Then, for the first time, Turnbull twisted round his red bear to get a glimpse of his companion, who was a foot or two behind, and remarked abruptly: " Mr. MacIan, we've been going the wrong way to work all along.
We're traced everywhere, because everybody knows about us.
It's as if one went about with Kruger's beard on Mafeking Night.
In the little hamlet of Haroc, in the Isle of St. Loup, there lived a man who-though living under the English flag-was absolutely untypical of the French tradition.
He was quite unnoticeable, but that was exactly where he was quite himself.
He was not even extraordinarily French; but then it is against the French tradition to be extraordinarily French.
Ordinary Englishmen would only have thought him a little old-fashioned; imperialistic Englishmen would really have mistaken him for the old John Bull of the caricatures.
He was stout; he was quite undistinguished; and he had side-whiskers, worn just a little longer than John Bull's.
He was by name Pierre Durand; he was by trade a wine merchant; he was by politics a conservative republican; he had been brought up a Catholic, had always thought and acted as an agnostic, and was very mildly returning to the Church in his later years.
He had a genius (if one can even use so wild a word in connexion with so tame a person) a genius for saying the conventional thing on every conceivable subject; or rather what we in England would call the conventional thing.
For it was not convention with him, but solid and manly conviction.
Convention implies cant or affectation, and he had not the faintest smell of either.
He was simply an ordinary citizen with ordinary views; and if you had told him so he would have taken it as an ordinary compliment.
If you had asked him about women, he would have said that one must preserve their domesticity and decorum; he would have used the stalest words, but he would have in reserve the strongest arguments.
If you had asked him about government, he would have said that all citizens were free and equal, but he would have meant what he said.
If you had asked him about education, he would have said that the young must be trained up in habits of industry and of respect for their parents.
Still he would have set them the example of industry, and he would have been one of the parents whom they could respect.
A state of mind so hopelessly central is depressing to the English instinct.
But then in England a man announcing these platitudes is generally a fool and a frightened fool, announcing them out of mere social servility.
But Durand was anything but a fool; he had read all the eighteenth century, and could have defended his platitudes round every angle of eighteenth-century argument.
And certainly he was anything but a coward: swollen and sedentary as he was, he could have hit any man back who touched him with the instant violence of an automatic machine; and dying in a uniform would have seemed to him only the sort of thing that sometimes happens.
I am afraid it is impossible to explain this monster amid the exaggerative sects and the eccentric clubs of my country.
He lived in a little villa which was furnished well with comfortable chairs and tables and highly uncomfortable classical pictures and medallions.
The art in his home contained nothing between the two extremes of hard, meagre designs of Greek heads and Roman togas, and on the other side a few very vulgar Catholic images in the crudest colours; these were mostly in his daughter's room.
He had recently lost his wife, whom he had loved heartily and rather heavily in complete silence, and upon whose grave he was constantly in the habit of placing hideous little wreaths, made out of a sort of black-and-white beads.
Madeleine Durand was physically a sleepy young woman, and might easily have been supposed to be morally a lazy one.
It is, however, certain that the work of her house was done somehow, and it is even more rapidly ascertainable that nobody else did it.
The logician is, therefore, driven back upon the assumption that she did it; and that lends a sort of mysterious interest to her personality at the beginning.
She had very broad, low, and level brows, which seemed even lower because her warm yellow hair clustered down to her eyebrows; and she had a face just plump enough not to look as powerful as it was.
Anything that was heavy in all this was abruptly lightened by two large, light china-blue eyes, lightened all of a sudden as if it had been lifted into the air by two big blue butterflies.
The rest of her was less than middle-sized, and was of a casual and comfortable sort; and she had this difference from such girls as the girl in the motor-car, that one did not incline to take in her figure at all, but only her broad and leonine and innocent head.
Both the father and the daughter were of the sort that would normally have avoided all observation; that is, all observation in that extraordinary modern world which calls out everything except strength.
Both of them had strength below the surface; they were like quiet peasants owning enormous and unquarried mines.
The father with his square face and grey side whiskers, the daughter with her square face and golden fringe of hair, were both stronger than they know; stronger than anyone knew.
The father believed in civilization, in the storied tower we have erected to affront nature; that is, the father believed in Man.
The daughter believed in God; and was even stronger.
They neither of them believed in themselves; for that is a decadent weakness.
The daughter was called a devotee.
She left upon ordinary people the impression-the somewhat irritating impression-produced by such a person; it can only be described as the sense of strong water being perpetually poured into some abyss.
She did her housework easily; she achieved her social relations sweetly; she was never neglectful and never unkind.
This accounted for all that was soft in her, but not for all that was hard.
She trod firmly as if going somewhere; she flung her face back as if defying something; she hardly spoke a cross word, yet there was often battle in her eyes.
The modern man asked doubtfully where all this silent energy went to.
He would have stared still more doubtfully if he had been told that it all went into her prayers.
The conventions of the Isle of St. Loup were necessarily a compromise or confusion between those of France and England; and it was vaguely possible for a respectable young lady to have half-attached lovers, in a way that would be impossible to the _bourgeoisie_ of France.
One man in particular had made himself an unmistakable figure in the track of this girl as she went to church.
He was a short, prosperous-looking man, whose long, bushy black beard and clumsy black umbrella made him seem both shorter and older than he really was; but whose big, bold eyes, and step that spurned the ground, gave him an instant character of youth.
His name was Camille Bert, and he was a commercial traveller who had only been in the island an idle week before he began to hover in the tracks of Madeleine Durand.
Since everyone knows everyone in so small a place, Madeleine certainly knew him to speak to; but it is not very evident that she ever spoke.
He haunted her, however; especially at church, which was, indeed, one of the few certain places for finding her.
In her home she had a habit of being invisible, sometimes through insatiable domesticity, sometimes through an equally insatiable solitude.
M. Bert did not give the impression of a pious man, though he did give, especially with his eyes, the impression of an honest one.
But he went to Mass with a simple exactitude that could not be mistaken for a pose, or even for a vulgar fascination.
It was perhaps this religious regularity which eventually drew Madeleine into recognition of him.
At least it is certain that she twice spoke to him with her square and open smile in the porch of the church; and there was human nature enough in the hamlet to turn even that into gossip.
But the real interest arose suddenly as a squall arises with the extraordinary affair that occurred about five days after.
There was about a third of a mile beyond the village of Haroc a large but lonely hotel upon the London or Paris model, but commonly almost entirely empty.
Among the accidental group of guests who had come to it at this season was a man whose nationality no one could fix and who bore the non-committal name of Count Gregory.
He treated everybody with complete civility and almost in complete silence.
On the few occasions when he spoke, he spoke either French, English, or once (to the priest) Latin; and the general opinion was that he spoke them all wrong.
He was a large, lean man, with the stoop of an aged eagle, and even the eagle's nose to complete it; he had old-fashioned military whiskers and moustache dyed with a garish and highly incredible yellow.
He had the dress of a showy gentleman and the manners of a decayed gentleman; he seemed (as with a sort of simplicity) to be trying to be a dandy when he was too old even to know that he was old.
Ye he was decidedly a handsome figure with his curled yellow hair and lean fastidious face; and he wore a peculiar frock-coat of bright turquoise blue, with an unknown order pinned to it, and he carried a huge and heavy cane.
Despite his silence and his dandified dress and whiskers, the island might never have heard of him but for the extraordinary event of which I have spoken, which fell about in the following way:
In such casual atmospheres only the enthusiastic go to Benediction; and as the warm blue twilight closed over the little candle-lit church and village, the line of worshippers who went home from the former to the latter thinned out until it broke.
On one such evening at least no one was in church except the quiet, unconquerable Madeleine, four old women, one fisherman, and, of course, the irrepressible M. Camille Bert.
The others seemed to melt away afterwards into the peacock colours of the dim green grass and the dark blue sky.
Even Durand was invisible instead of being merely reverentially remote; and Madeleine set forth through the patch of black forest alone.
She was not in the least afraid of loneliness, because she was not afraid of devils.
I think they were afraid of her.
In a clearing of the wood, however, which was lit up with a last patch of the perishing sunlight, there advanced upon her suddenly one who was more startling than a devil.
The incomprehensible Count Gregory, with his yellow hair like flame and his face like the white ashes of the flame, was advancing bareheaded towards her, flinging out his arms and his long fingers with a frantic gesture.
Then his frantic hands fell by his sides and he looked up under his brows with an expression that went well with his hard breathing.
Madeleine Durand had come to a halt at first in childish wonder, and now, with more than masculine self-control, " I fancy I know your face, sir," she said, as if to gain time.
Then of a sudden there came out of him a spout of wild and yet pompous phrases.
I am a man who knows no limit; I am the most callous of criminals, the most unrepentant of sinners.
There is no man in my dominions so vile as I.
But my dominions stretch from the olives of Italy to the fir-woods of Denmark, and there is no nook of all of them in which I have not done a sin.
But when I bear you away I shall be doing my first sacrilege, and also my first act of virtue.
He seized her suddenly by the elbow; and she did not scream but only pulled and tugged.
Yet though she had not screamed, someone astray in the woods seemed to have heard the struggle.
A short but nimble figure came along the woodland path like a humming bullet and had caught Count Gregory a crack across the face before his own could be recognized.
When it was recognized it was that of Camille, with the black elderly beard and the young ardent eyes.
Up to the moment when Camille had hit the Count, Madeleine had entertained no doubt that the Count was merely a madman.
Now she was startled with a new sanity; for the tall man in the yellow whiskers and yellow moustache first returned the blow of Bert, as if it were a sort of duty, and then stepped back with a slight bow and an easy smile.
He was so complete an aristocrat that he could offer his back to them all the way up that avenue; and his back never once looked uncomfortable.
The glowing and transparent blue of twilight had long been covered by the opaque and slatelike blue of night, when he handed her into the lamp-lit interior of her home.
He went out himself into the darkness, walking sturdily, but tearing at his black beard.
All the French or semi-French gentry of the district considered this a case in which a duel was natural and inevitable, and neither party had any difficulty in finding seconds, strangers as they were in the place.
As no particular purpose could be served by delay, it was arranged that the affair should fall out three days afterwards.
And when this was settled the whole community, as it were, turned over again in bed and thought no more about the matter.
At least there was only one member of it who seemed to be restless, and that was she who was commonly most restful.
On the next night Madeleine Durand went to church as usual; and as usual the stricken Camille was there also.
What was not so usual was that when they were a bow-shot from the church Madeleine turned round and walked back to him.
She went on with wide and serious eyes like an animal's: " It is not wrong of me to speak to you, because your soul, or anybody's soul, matters so much more than what the world says about anybody.
I want to talk to you about what you are going to do.
Bert saw in front of him the inevitable heroine of the novels trying to prevent bloodshed; and his pale firm face became implacable.
She looked at him for a moment with a face openly puzzled, and then broke into an odd and beautiful half-smile.
No one has ever hit me; and if they had I should not feel as a man may.
I am sure it is not the best thing to fight.
It would be better to forgive-if one could really forgive.
But when people dine with my father and say that fighting a duel is mere murder-of course I can see that is not just.
It's all so different-having a reason-and letting the other man know-and using the same guns and things-and doing it in front of your friends.
I'm awfully stupid, but I know that men like you aren't murderers.
But it wasn't that that I meant.
asked the other, looking broodingly at the earth.
I thought that as you always go to church-I thought you would communicate this morning.
Bert stepped backward with a sort of action she had never seen in him before.
It seemed to alter his whole body.
You men are the other half of the world.
I know nothing about when you ought to die.
But surely if you are daring to try and find God beyond the grave and appeal to Him-you ought to let Him find you when He comes and stands there every morning in our little church.
And placid as she was, she made a little gesture of argument, of which the pathos wrung the heart.
M. Camille Bert was by no means placid.
Before that incomplete gesture and frankly pleading face he retreated as if from the jaws of a dragon.
His dark black hair and beard looked utterly unnatural against the startling pallor of his face.
When at last he said something it was: " O God!
He did not say it in French.
Nor did he, strictly speaking, say it in English.
The truth (interesting only to anthropologists) is that he said it in Scotch.
You must forgive me, but I was so frightened that you would not do it at all.
Bert seemed to crush his teeth together until they broke, and managed to say between them: " And why should you suppose that I shouldn't do as you say-I mean not to do it at all?
Then it was that Bert exploded with a brutality which might have come from Count Gregory, his criminal opponent.
He advanced upon Madeleine with flaming eyes, and almost took her by the two shoulders.
I must burst up the show; I must and will say everything.
You are the happiest and honestest thing I ever saw in this godless universe.
And I am the dirtiest and most dishonest.
Madeleine looked at him doubtfully for an instant, and then said with a sudden simplicity and cheerfulness: " Oh, but if you are really sorry it is all right.
If you are horribly sorry it is all the better.
You have only to go and tell the priest so and he will give you God out of his own hands.
cried the man, " and I tell you God is a lie and a fable and a mask.
And for the first time in my life I do not feel superior to God.
said Madeleine, in massive wonder.
He had been plucking fiercely at his black beard and hair all the time; now he suddenly plucked them off and flung them like moulted feathers in the mire.
This extraordinary spoliation left in the sunlight the same face, but a much younger head-a head with close chestnut curls and a short chestnut beard.
I might have played it successfully on any other woman; I have hit the one woman on whom it cannot be played.
It's just like my damned luck.
The plain truth is," and here when he came to the plain truth he boggled and blundered as Evan had done in telling it to the girl in the motor-car.
The police are after me; not for atheism but for being ready to fight for it.
And I have come to fight for the fact that there is no God; it is for that that I have seen this cursed island and your blessed face.
cried Turnbull, in agony.
I am sure there is no God.
She flung back her open face and smiled.
James Turnbull made a little step backward, and for the first time in his life there seemed to break out and blaze in his head thoughts that were not his own.
Why, you have wrecked your whole business because you would not commit blasphemy.
The man stood, a somewhat comic figure in his tragic bewilderment, with the honest red head of James Turnbull sticking out of the rich and fictitious garments of Camille Bert.
But the startled pain of his face was strong enough to obliterate the oddity.
You pretend to be a Catholic commercial traveller from France.
Poor Mr. MacIan has to pretend to be a dissolute nobleman from nowhere.
Your scheme succeeds; you pick a quite convincing quarrel; you arrange a quite respectable duel; the duel you have planned so long will come off tomorrow with absolute certainty and safety.
And then you throw off your wig and throw up your scheme and throw over your colleague, because I ask you to go into a building and eat a bit of bread.
And _then_ you dare to tell me that you are sure there is nothing watching us.
Then you say you know there is nothing on the very altar you run away from.
This has got beyond any talking.
And he plunged along into the village, leaving his black wig and beard lying behind him on the road.
As the market-place opened before him he saw Count Gregory, that distinguished foreigner, standing and smoking in elegant meditation at the corner of the local café.
He immediately made his way rapidly towards him, considering that a consultation was urgent.
But he had hardly crossed half of that stony quadrangle when a window burst open above him and a head was thrust out, shouting.
The man was in his woollen undershirt, but Turnbull knew the energetic, apologetic head of the sergeant of police.
He pointed furiously at Turnbull and shouted his name.
A policeman ran excitedly from under an archway and tried to collar him.
Two men selling vegetables dropped their baskets and joined in the chase.
Turnbull dodged the constable, upset one of the men into his own basket, and bounding towards the distinguished foreign Count, called to him clamorously: " Come on, MacIan, the hunt is up again.
The prompt reply of Count Gregory was to pull off his large yellow whiskers and scatter them on the breeze with an air of considerable relief.
Then he joined the flight of Turnbull, and even as he did so, with one wrench of his powerful hands rent and split the strange, thick stick that he carried.
Inside it was a naked old-fashioned rapier.
The two got a good start up the road before the whole town was awakened behind them; and half-way up it a similar transformation was seen to take place in Mr. Turnbull's singular umbrella.
The two had a long race for the harbour; but the English police were heavy and the French inhabitants were indifferent.
In any case, they got used to the notion of the road being clear; and just as they had come to the cliffs MacIan banged into another gentleman with unmistakable surprise.
How he knew he was another gentleman merely by banging into him, must remain a mystery.
MacIan was a very poor and very sober Scotch gentleman.
The other was a very drunk and very wealthy English gentleman.
But there was something in the staggered and openly embarrassed apologies that made them understand each other as readily and as quickly and as much as two men talking French in the middle of China.
The nearest expression of the type is that it either hits or apologizes; and in this case both apologized.
Then before MacIan could get past his sprawling and staggering figure he ran forward again and said with a sort of shouting and ear-shattering whisper: " I say, my name is Wilkinson.
And he shook his head with extraordinary sagacity.
The head of the pursuing host was just showing over the top of the hill behind him.
Turnbull had already ducked under the intoxicated gentleman's elbow and fled far in front.
Evan pulled up abruptly and looked back at him.
With these words the benevolent Mr. Wilkinson fell flat on his face in the road, but continued to laugh softly, and turned towards his flying companion a face of peculiar peace and benignity.
Evan's mind went through a crisis of instantaneous casuistry, in which it may be that he decided wrongly; but about how he decided his biographer can profess no doubt.
Two minutes afterwards he had overtaken Turnbull and told the tale; ten minutes afterwards he and Turnbull had somehow tumbled into the yacht called the _Gibson Girl_ and had somehow pushed off from the Isle of St. Loup.
The presence of the god or fairy can only be deduced from the fact that they never definitely ran into anything, either a boat, a rock, a quicksand, or a man-of-war.
Apart from this negative description, their voyage would be difficult to describe.
It took at least a fortnight, and MacIan, who was certainly the shrewder sailor of the two, realized that they were sailing west into the Atlantic and were probably by this time past the Scilly Isles.
How much farther they stood out into the western sea it was impossible to conjecture.
But they felt certain, at least, that they were far enough into that awful gulf between us and America to make it unlikely that they would soon see land again.
cried MacIan, in a dry-throated excitement.
The naked-looking nose of land projecting from the unknown island was, indeed, growing larger and larger, like the trunk of some terrible and advancing elephant.
There seemed to be nothing in particular, at least on this side of the island, except shoals of shellfish lying so thick as almost to make it look like one of those toy grottos that the children make.
In one place, however, the coast offered a soft, smooth bay of sand, and even the rudimentary ingenuity of the two amateur mariners managed to run up the little ship with her prow well on shore and her bowsprit pointing upward, as in a sort of idiotic triumph.
They tumbled on shore and began to unload the vessel, setting the stores out in rows upon the sand with something of the solemnity of boys playing at pirates.
There were Mr. Wilkinson's cigar-boxes and Mr. Wilkinson's dozen of champagne and Mr. Wilkinson's tinned salmon and Mr. Wilkinson's tinned tongue and Mr. Wilkinson's tinned sardines, and every sort of preserved thing that could be seen at the Army and Navy stores.
Then MacIan stopped with a jar of pickles in his hand and said abruptly:
Then he added more thoughtfully: " Of course this island seems rather bare and the survivor ----
MacIan looked down at the rows of tins and bottles, and the cloud of doubt still lowered upon his face.
asked MacIan, listlessly, in the manner of an inattentive child.
And I rather fancy it's the same.
Something like the spectre of a smile appeared on the unsmiling visage of the Gael; and he made at least no movement of dissent.
The police will never catch us; but then neither may the public ever hear of us; and that was one of the things we wanted.
Then, after a pause, he said, drawing in the sand with his sword-point: " She may never hear of it at all.
inquired the other, puffing at his cigar.
Then we could leave one copy on the island whatever happens to us and put another in an empty bottle and send it out to sea, as they do in the books.
As MacIan, a tall, almost ghostly figure, paced along the edge of sand that ran round the islet, the purple but cloudy poetry which was his native element was piled up at its thickest upon his soul.
The unique island and the endless sea emphasized the thing solely as an epic.
There were no ladies or policemen here to give him a hint either of its farce or its tragedy.
Then he wandered up to the highest level of the rock, where there was a roof or plateau of level stone.
Half an hour afterwards, Turnbull found him clearing away the loose sand from this table-land and making it smooth and even.
And till the time comes this place shall be sacred.
Before he descended, however, he fixed the two swords upright, one at each end of the platform, as if they were human sentinels to guard it under the stars.
Then they came down and lunched plentifully in a nest of loose rocks.
In the same place that night they supped more plentifully still.
The smoke of Mr. Wilkinson's cigars went up ceaseless and strong smelling, like a pagan sacrifice; the golden glories of Mr. Wilkinson's champagne rose to their heads and poured out of them in fancies and philosophies.
And occasionally they would look up at the starlight and the rock and see the space guarded by the two cross-hilted swords, which looked like two black crosses at either end of a grave.
In this primitive and Homeric truce the week passed by; it consisted almost entirely of eating, drinking, smoking, talking, and occasionally singing.
They wrote their records and cast loose their bottle.
They never ascended to the ominous plateau; they had never stood there save for that single embarrassed minute when they had had no time to take stock of the seascape or the shape of the land.
They did not even explore the island; for MacIan was partly concerned in prayer and Turnbull entirely concerned with tobacco; and both these forms of inspiration can be enjoyed by the secluded and even the sedentary.
MacIan was already standing heavily by his with bent head and eyes reading the ground.
He had not even troubled to throw a glance round the island or the horizon.
But Turnbull being of a more active and birdlike type of mind did throw a glance round the scene.
The consequence of which was that he nearly fell off the rock.
On three sides of this shelly and sandy islet the sea stretched blue and infinite without a speck of land or sail; the same as Turnbull had first seen it, except that the tide being out it showed a few yards more of slanting sand under the roots of the rocks.
But on the fourth side the island exhibited a more extraordinary feature.
In fact, it exhibited the extraordinary feature of not being an island at all.
A long, curving neck of sand, as smooth and wet as the neck of the sea serpent, ran out into the sea and joined their rock to a line of low, billowing, and glistening sand-hills, which the sinking sea had just bared to the sun.
Whether they were firm sand or quicksand it was difficult to guess; but there was at least no doubt that they lay on the edge of some larger land; for colourless hills appeared faintly behind them and no sea could be seen beyond.
cried Turnbull, with rolling eyes; " this ain't an island in the Atlantic.
We've butted the bally continent of America.
MacIan turned his head, and his face, already pale, grew a shade paler.
He was by this time walking in a world of omens and hieroglyphics, and he could not read anything but what was baffling or menacing in this brown gigantic arm of the earth stretched out into the sea to seize him.
If it is essential to your emotions, I will cheerfully finish the fight here and now; but I must confess that if you kill me here I shall die with my curiosity highly excited and unsatisfied upon a minor point of geography.
We must see what is at the end of the road of sand; it may be a bridge built across the gulf by God.
They clambered down the rocky peninsula and trudged along the sandy isthmus with the plodding resolution of men who seemed almost to have made up their minds to be wanderers on the face of the earth.
Despite Turnbull's air of scientific eagerness, he was really the less impatient of the two; and the Highlander went on well ahead of him with passionate strides.
By the time they had walked for about half an hour in the ups and downs of those dreary sands, the distance between the two had lengthened and MacIan was only a tall figure silhouetted for an instant upon the crest of some sand-dune and then disappearing behind it.
This rather increased the Robinson Crusoe feeling in Mr. Turnbull, and he looked about almost disconsolately for some sign of life.
What sort of life he expected it to be if it appeared, he did not very clearly know.
He has since confessed that he thinks that in his subconsciousness he expected an alligator.
The first sign of life that he did see, however, was something more extraordinary than the largest alligator.
It was nothing less than the notorious Mr. Evan MacIan coming bounding back across the sand-heaps breathless, without his cap and keeping the sword in his hand only by a habit now quite hardened.
repeated his companion, whose scenery had of late been chiefly of shellfish, " what the deuce!
asked the staring editor.
Turnbull thrust his hands through his red hair like one who gives up the world as a bad riddle.
Then glancing at his companion with a small frown, as of one slightly suspicious, he said: " I say, don't think me rude-but you're a visionary kind of fellow-and then we drank a great deal.
Do you mind waiting here while I go and see for myself?
Turnbull ran off ahead with a rapidity now far greater than his rival's, and soon vanished over the disputed sand-hill.
Then five minutes passed, and then seven minutes; and MacIan bit his lip and swung his sword, and the other did not reappear.
Finally, with a Gaelic oath, Evan started forward to the rescue, and almost at the same moment the small figure of the missing man appeared on the ridge against the sky.
Even at that distance, however, there was something odd about his attitude; so odd that MacIan continued to make his way in that direction.
It looked as if he were wounded; or, still more, as if he were ill.
He wavered as he came down the slope and seemed flinging himself into peculiar postures.
But it was only when he came within three feet of MacIan's face, that that observer of mankind fully realized that Mr. James Turnbull was roaring with laughter.
And he went off again into convulsions of his humorous ailment.
asked MacIan, with stern impatience.
I saw the Emperor of Ethiopia-oh, I saw him all right.
Then he had a momentary return of his hysteria and said: " I say, old boy, I should like to see a chart of our fortnight's cruise in Wilkinson's yacht.
MacIan had no smile in answer, but his eager lips opened as if parched for the truth.
I have learnt everything I wanted to know from the partially black musician over there, who has taken a run in his war-paint to meet a friend in a quiet pub along the coast-the noble savage has told me all about it.
Buck up, old man, this story of ours is a switchback.
I have begun to understand the pulse and the time of it; now we are up in a cathedral and then we are down in a theatre, where they only play farces.
Come, I am quite reconciled-let us enjoy the farce.
But MacIan said nothing, and an instant afterwards Turnbull himself called out in an entirely changed voice: " Oh, this is damnable!
MacIan followed his eye along the sand-hills.
Up to this instant Evan MacIan had really understood nothing; but when he saw the policeman he saw everything.
He saw his enemies, all the powers and princes of the earth.
He suddenly altered from a staring statue to a leaping man of the mountains.
When the policeman had finished his admirable railway curve, he found a wall of failing sand between him and the pursued.
By the time he had scaled it thrice, slid down twice, and crested it in the third effort, the two flying figures were far in front.
They found the sand harder farther on; it began to be crusted with scraps of turf and in a few moments they were flying easily over an open common of rank sea-grass.
They had no easy business, however; for the bottle which they had so innocently sent into the chief gate of Thanet had called to life the police of half a county on their trail.
They ran a mile or two farther along the edge of the wood until they reached another and somewhat similar opening.
Then MacIan stood utterly still and listened, as animals listen, for every sound in the universe.
Then he said: " We are quit of them.
And Turnbull said: " Where shall we go now?
MacIan looked at the silver sunset that was closing in, barred by plumy lines of purple cloud; he looked at the high tree-tops that caught the last light and at the birds going heavily homeward, just as if all these things were bits of written advice that he could read.
Then he said: " The best place we can go to is to bed.
If we can get some sleep in this wood, now everyone has cleared out of it, it will be worth a handicap of two hundred yards tomorrow.
Turnbull, who was exceptionally lively and laughing in his demeanour, kicked his legs about like a schoolboy and said he did not want to go to sleep.
He walked incessantly and talked very brilliantly.
And when at last he lay down on the hard earth, sleep struck him senseless like a hammer.
Indeed, he needed the strongest sleep he could get; for the earth was still full of darkness and a kind of morning fog when his fellow-fugitive shook him awake.
said Turnbull, sitting up and rubbing his red eyebrows with his hand.
The next moment, however, he had jumped up alive and leaping like a man struck with a shock of cold water, and he was plunging after MacIan along the woodland path.
The shape of their old friend the constable had appeared against the pearl and pink of the sunrise.
Somehow, it always looked a very funny shape when seen against the sunrise.
A wash of weary daylight was breaking over the country-side, and the fields and roads were full of white mist-the kind of white mist that clings in corners like cotton wool.
The empty road, along which the chase had taken its turn, was overshadowed on one side by a very high discoloured wall, stained, and streaked green, as with seaweed-evidently the high-shouldered sentinel of some great gentleman's estate.
A yard or two from the wall ran parallel to it a linked and tangled line of lime-trees, forming a kind of cloister along the side of the road.
It was under this branching colonnade that the two fugitives fled, almost concealed from their pursuers by the twilight, the mist and the leaping zoetrope of shadows.
Their feet, though beating the ground furiously, made but a faint noise; for they had kicked away their boots in the wood; their long, antiquated weapons made no jingle or clatter, for they had strapped them across their backs like guitars.
They had all the advantages that invisibility and silence can add to speed.
A hundred and fifty yards behind them down the centre of the empty road the first of their pursuers came pounding and panting-a fat but powerful policeman who had distanced all the rest.
He came on at a splendid pace for so portly a figure; but, like all heavy bodies in motion, he gave the impression that it would be easier for him to increase his pace than to slacken it suddenly.
Nothing short of a brick wall could have abruptly brought him up.
Turnbull turned his head slightly and found breath to say something to MacIan.
Pursuer and pursued were fixed in their distance as they fled, for some quarter of a mile, when they came to a place where two or three of the trees grew twistedly together, making a special obscurity.
Past this place the pursuing policeman went thundering without thought or hesitation.
But he was pursuing his shadow or the wind; for Turnbull had put one foot in a crack of the tree and gone up it as quickly and softly as a cat.
Somewhat more laboriously but in equal silence the long legs of the Highlander had followed; and crouching in crucial silence in the cloud of leaves, they saw the whole posse of their pursuers go by and die into the dust and mists of the distance.
The white vapour lay, as it often does, in lean and palpable layers; and even the head of the tree was above it in the half-daylight, like a green ship swinging on a sea of foam.
But higher yet behind them, and readier to catch the first coming of the sun, ran the rampart of the top of the wall, which in their excitement of escape looked at once indispensable and unattainable, like the wall of heaven.
Here, however, it was MacIan's turn to have the advantage; for, though less light-limbed and feline, he was longer and stronger in the arms.
In two seconds he had tugged up his chin over the wall like a horizontal bar; the next he sat astride of it, like a horse of stone.
With his assistance Turnbull vaulted to the same perch, and the two began cautiously to shift along the wall in the direction by which they had come, doubling on their tracks to throw off the last pursuit.
MacIan could not rid himself of the fancy of bestriding a steed; the long, grey coping of the wall shot out in front of him, like the long, grey neck of some nightmare Rosinante.
He had the quaint thought that he and Turnbull were two knights on one steed on the old shield of the Templars.
The nightmare of the stone horse was increased by the white fog, which seemed thicker inside the wall than outside.
They could make nothing of the enclosure upon which they were partial trespassers, except that the green and crooked branches of a big apple-tree came crawling at them out of the mist, like the tentacles of some green cuttlefish.
Anything would serve, however, that was likely to confuse their trail, so they both decided without need of words to use this tree also as a ladder-a ladder of descent.
When they dropped from the lowest branch to the ground their stockinged feet felt hard gravel beneath them.
They had alighted in the middle of a very broad garden path, and the clearing mist permitted them to see the edge of a well-clipped lawn.
As it thinned yet farther they saw that it was only flowers; but flowers in such insolent mass and magnificence as can seldom be seen out of the tropics.
Purple and crimson rhododendrons rose arrogantly, like rampant heraldic animals against their burning background of laburnum gold.
The roses were red hot; the clematis was, so to speak, blue hot.
And yet the mere whiteness of the syringa seemed the most violent colour of all.
As the golden sunlight gradually conquered the mists, it had really something of the sensational sweetness of the slow opening of the gates of Eden.
MacIan, whose mind was always haunted with such seraphic or titanic parallels, made some such remark to his companion.
But Turnbull only cursed and said that it was the back garden of some damnable rich man.
When the last haze had faded from the ordered paths, the open lawns, and the flaming flower-beds, the two realized, not without an abrupt re-examination of their position, that they were not alone in the garden.
Down the centre of the central garden path, preceded by a blue cloud from a cigarette, was walking a gentleman who evidently understood all the relish of a garden in the very early morning.
He was a slim yet satisfied figure, clad in a suit of pale-grey tweed, so subdued that the pattern was imperceptible-a costume that was casual but not by any means careless.
His face, which was reflective and somewhat over-refined, was the face of a quite elderly man, though his stringy hair and moustache were still quite yellow.
A double eye-glass, with a broad, black ribbon, drooped from his aquiline nose, and he smiled, as he communed with himself, with a self-content which was rare and almost irritating.
The straw panama on his head was many shades shabbier than his clothes, as if he had caught it up by accident.
It needed the full shock of the huge shadow of MacIan, falling across his sunlit path, to rouse him from his smiling reverie.
When this had fallen on him he lifted his head a little and blinked at the intruders with short-sighted benevolence, but with far less surprise than might have been expected.
He was a gentleman; that is, he had social presence of mind, whether for kindness or for insolence.
We have just come over the wall.
repeated the smiling old gentleman, still without letting his surprise come uppermost.
The man in the panama looked at the ground and smoked thoughtfully for a few moments, after which he said, with a sort of matured conviction:
Turnbull's eye grew even more offensive, and he began biting his red beard; but MacIan seemed to recognize a type with which he could deal and continued quite easily:
Things which, on the whole, had better not get into the newspapers.
The smile of the large proprietor broadened for a moment under his loose, light moustache, and the other continued with increased confidence:
The police won't allow it in the streets-and then there's the County Council-and in the fields even nothing's allowed but posters of pills.
But in a gentleman's garden, now ----
The strange gentleman smiled again and said, easily enough: " Do you want to fight?
What do you want to fight about?
MacIan had understood his man pretty well up to that point; an instinct common to all men with the aristocratic tradition of Europe had guided him.
He knew that the kind of man who in his own back garden wears good clothes and spoils them with a bad hat is not the kind of man who has an abstract horror of illegal actions of violence or the evasion of the police.
But a man may understand ragging and yet be very far from understanding religious ragging.
Even MacIan, therefore (whose tact was far from being his strong point), felt the necessity for some compromise in the mode of approach.
At last he said, and even then with hesitation:
The tilted eye-glasses of the old gentleman fell abruptly from his nose, and he thrust his aristocratic chin so far forward that his lean neck seemed to shoot out longer like a telescope.
he queried, in a key completely new.
cried Turnbull, taking his turn roughly, " I'll tell you what it's all about.
I think that there's no God.
I take it that it's nobody's business but mine-or God's, if there is one.
This young gentleman from the Highlands happens to think that it's his business.
In consequence, he first takes a walking-stick and smashes my shop; then he takes the same walking-stick and tries to smash me.
To this I naturally object.
I suggest that if it comes to that we should both have sticks.
He improves on the suggestion and proposes that we should both have steel-pointed sticks.
The police (with characteristic unreasonableness) will not accept either of our proposals; the result is that we run about dodging the police and have jumped over our garden wall into your magnificent garden to throw ourselves on your magnificent hospitality.
The face of the old gentleman had grown redder and redder during this address, but it was still smiling; and when he broke out it was with a kind of guffaw.
said MacIan, with his simple monstrosity of speech; " all man's worship began when the Garden of Eden was founded.
said Turnbull, with an oath, " and ended when the Zoological Gardens were founded.
cried the stranger, stamping up and down the gravel and choking with laughter," whether there is a God!
And he went stamping up and down the garden, making it echo with his unintelligible laughter.
Then he came back to them more composed and wiping his eyes.
And he suddenly began to kick and wave his well-clad legs about the lawn.
repeated Turnbull, in a tone which is beyond description.
answered the other, thoroughly amused.
You might have gone floundering about in all sorts of churches and chapels and colleges and schools of philosophy looking for some evidence of the existence of God.
Why, there is no evidence, except seeing him.
And the obliging old gentleman instantly stood on one leg without relaxing at all the grave and cultured benignity of his expression.
said the man on one leg, nodding gravely.
So does the country beyond that and the sea beyond that and all the rest of the earth.
And he added, with a smile of apology: " You see, I'm God.
Turnbull and MacIan looked at him for one moment with a sort of notion that perhaps he was not too old to be merely playing the fool.
But after staring steadily for an instant Turnbull saw the hard and horrible earnestness in the man's eyes behind all his empty animation.
Then Turnbull looked very gravely at the strict gravel walls and the gay flower-beds and the long rectangular red-brick building, which the mist had left evident beyond them.
Then he looked at MacIan.
Almost at the same moment another man came walking quickly round the regal clump of rhododendrons.
He had the look of a prosperous banker, wore a good tall silk hat, was almost stout enough to burst the buttons of a fine frock-coat; but he was talking to himself, and one of his elbows had a singular outward jerk as he went by.
The man with the good hat and the jumping elbow went by very quickly; yet the man with the bad hat, who thought he was God, overtook him.
He ran after him and jumped over a bed of geraniums to catch him.
Then as he led the heavy, silk-hatted man back towards the group, he caught MacIan's ear in order to whisper: " This poor gentleman is mad; he thinks he is Edward VII.
At this the self-appointed Creator slightly winked.
But in my position one has to meet so many people.
One has to be broadminded.
The big banker in the black frock-coat and hat was standing quite grave and dignified on the lawn, save for his slight twitch of one limb, and he did not seem by any means unworthy of the part which the other promptly forced upon him.
Your own royal position and my much humbler one surely indicate us as the proper seconds.
Seconds-yes, seconds ----" and here the speaker was once more shaken with his old malady of laughter.
You, he-he, are the king.
I am God; really, they could hardly have better supporters.
They have come to the right place.
Then Turnbull, who had been staring with a frown at the fresh turf, burst out with a rather bitter laugh and cried, throwing his red head in the air:
And MacIan answered, with an adamantine stupidity:
They both felt at the same moment all the breadth and blossoming beauty of that paradise, the coloured trees, the natural and restful nooks and also the great wall of stone-more awful than the wall of China-from which no flesh could flee.
Turnbull was moodily balancing his sword in his hand as the other spoke; then he started, for a mouth whispered quite close to his ear.
With a softness incredible in any cat, the huge, heavy man in the black hat and frock-coat had crept across the lawn from his own side and was saying in his ear: " Don't trust that second of yours.
He's mad and not so mad, either; for he frightfully cunning and sharp.
Don't believe the story he tells you about why I hate him.
I know the story he'll tell; I overheard it when the housekeeper was talking to the postman.
It's too long to talk about now, and I expect we're watched, but ----
Something in Turnbull made him want suddenly to be sick on the grass; the mere healthy and heathen horror of the unclean; the mere inhumane hatred of the inhuman state of madness.
He seemed to hear all round him the hateful whispers of that place, innumerable as leaves whispering in the wind, and each of them telling eagerly some evil that had not happened or some terrific secret which was not true.
All the rationalist and plain man revolted within him against bowing down for a moment in that forest of deception and egotistical darkness.
He wanted to blow up that palace of delusions with dynamite; and in some wild way, which I will not defend, he tried to do it.
He looked across at MacIan and said: " Oh, I can't stand this!
asked his opponent, eyeing him doubtfully.
replied Turnbull; " one can't use uncivil expressions even to a-deity.
The fact is, I don't like having God for my second.
said that being in a state of great offence, " in my position I am not used to having my favours refused.
The editor of _The Atheist_ turned upon him like one who has lost all patience, and exploded: " Yes, you are God, aren't you?
he said, abruptly, " why do we have two sets of teeth?
spluttered the genteel lunatic; " teeth?
Why do growing pains hurt?
Why are measles catching?
Why does a rose have thorns?
Why do rhinoceroses have horns?
Why is the horn on the top of the nose?
Why haven't I a horn on the top of my nose, eh?
And he struck the bridge of his nose smartly with his forefinger to indicate the place of the omission and then wagged the finger menacingly at the Creator.
You make a hundred seeds and only one bears fruit.
You make a million worlds and only one seems inhabited.
What do you mean by it, eh?
The unhappy lunatic had fallen back before this quite novel form of attack, and lifted his burnt-out cigarette almost like one warding off a blow.
Turnbull went on like a torrent.
A girl had the toothache in Croydon.
Fifty sailors were drowned off Selsey Bill.
What have you got to say for yourself, eh?
The representative of omnipotence looked as if he had left most of these things to his subordinates; he passed a hand over his wrinkling brow and said in a voice much saner than any he had yet used:
He likes the people who wear crowns, whether of diamonds or of stars.
He believes in the divine right of kings, and it is appropriate enough that he should have the king for his second.
But it is not appropriate to me that I should have God for my second.
I dislike and I deny the divine right of kings.
But I dislike more and I deny more the divine right of divinity.
Then after a pause in which he swallowed his passion, he said to MacIan: " You have got the right second, anyhow.
The Highlander did not answer, but stood as if thunderstruck with one long and heavy thought.
Then at last he turned abruptly to his second in the silk hat and said: " Who are you?
The man in the silk hat blinked and bridled in affected surprise, like one who was in truth accustomed to be doubted.
Turnbull swung round on his heel.
I am ready at any instant to restore the Stuarts.
I am ready at any instant to defy the Hanoverian brood-and I defy it now even when face to face with the actual ruler of the enormous British Empire!
And folding his arms and throwing back his lean, hawklike face, he haughtily confronted the man with the formal frock-coat and the eccentric elbow.
Who made you, whose fathers could not splutter English while they walked in Whitehall, who made you the judge between the republic of Sidney and the monarchy of Montrose?
What had your sires to do with England that they should have the foul offering of the blood of Derwentwater and the heart of Jimmy Dawson?
Where are the corpses of Culloden?
Where is the blood of Lochiel?
MacIan advanced upon his opponent with a bony and pointed finger, as if indicating the exact pocket in which the blood of that Cameron was probably kept; and Edward VII fell back a few paces in considerable confusion.
he continued in harsher and harsher accents, forcing the other back towards the flower-beds.
Yards of barbarian etiquette, to throttle the freedom of aristocracy!
Gas of northern metaphysics to blow up Broad Church bishops like balloons.
Bad pictures and bad manners and pantheism and the Albert Memorial.
Go back to Hanover, you humbug?
Before the end of this tirade the arrogance of the monarch had entirely given way; he had fairly turned tail and was trundling away down the path.
MacIan strode after him still preaching and flourishing his large, lean hands.
The other two remained in the centre of the lawn-Turnbull in convulsions of laughter, the lunatic in convulsions of disgust.
Almost at the same moment a third figure came stepping swiftly across the lawn.
The advancing figure walked with a stoop, and yet somehow flung his forked and narrow beard forward.
That carefully cut and pointed yellow beard was, indeed, the most emphatic thing about him.
When he clasped his hands behind him, under the tails of his coat, he would wag his beard at a man like a big forefinger.
It performed almost all his gestures; it was more important than the glittering eye-glasses through which he looked or the beautiful bleating voice in which he spoke.
But for the crooked glasses his dress was always exquisite; and but for the smile he was perfectly and perennially depressed.
It is such a mistake to wait for breakfast.
It spoils one's temper so much.
The new-comer started slightly, and Turnbull replied to the question on his face.
Turnbull's eyes did not move, but he realized that the man in the panama hat had lost all his ease of a landed proprietor and had withdrawn to a distance of thirty yards, where he stood glaring with all the contraction of fear and hatred that can stiffen a cat.
MacIan was sitting somewhat disconsolately on a stump of tree, his large black head half buried in his large brown hands, when Turnbull strode up to him chewing a cigarette.
He did not look up, but his comrade and enemy addressed him like one who must free himself of his feelings.
I hope you like the society of this poor devil whom your damned tracts and hymns and priests have driven out of his wits.
Five men in this place, they tell me, five men in this place who might have been fathers of families, and every one of them thinks he is God the Father.
you may talk about the ugliness of science, but there is no one here who thinks he is Protoplasm.
For one instant MacIan opened the eyes of battle; then his tightened lips took a crooked smile and he said, quite calmly:
A god can be humble, a devil can only be humbled.
asked Turnbull, knitting his brows.
The ordinary man in the street is more of a monster than that poor fellow; for the man in the street treats himself as God Almighty when he knows he isn't.
He expects the universe to turn round him, though he knows he isn't the centre.
What I want to point out is, that your faith does end in asylums and my science doesn't.
cried MacIan, scornfully.
But I bet there are many more who are simply mad on madness.
cried Evan, with unusual animation.
He's simply been broken down and driven raving by your damned science.
Talk about believing one is God-why, it's quite an old, comfortable, fireside fancy compared with the sort of things this fellow believes.
He believes that there is a God, but that he is better than God.
He says God will be afraid to face him.
He says one is always progressing beyond the best.
He put his arm in mine and whispered in my ear, as if it were the apocalypse:'Never trust a God that you can't improve on.'
said the atheist, with all his logic awake.
He says that a man's doctor ought to decide what woman he marries; and he says that children ought not to be brought up by their parents, because a physical partiality will then distort the judgement of the educator.
said Turnbull, laughing, " you have certainly come across a pretty bad case, and incidentally proved your own.
I suppose some men do lose their wits through science as through love and other good things.
He says that on some higher plane ----
Turnbull leapt to his feet as by an electric shock.
You've gone a bit too far, old man, with your little joke.
Even in a lunatic asylum there can't be anybody who, having thought about the matter, thinks that a triangle has not got three sides.
If he exists he must be a new era in human psychology.
MacIan vanished, and in a few moments returned, trailing with him his own discovery among lunatics, who was a slender man with a fixed smile and an unfixed and rolling head.
He had a goatlike beard just long enough to be shaken in a strong wind.
Turnbull sprang to his feet and was like one who is speechless through choking a sudden shout of laughter.
That's one of the doctors.
Evan looked back at the leering head with the long-pointed beard and repeated the word inquiringly: " One of the doctors?
Evan was still staring back curiously at the beaming and bearded creature behind him.
After a rather restless silence Turnbull plucked MacIan by the elbow and pulled him aside.
This is the very time he appointed to talk with us about our-well, our exeat.
asked the wondering MacIan.
said Turnbull, heartily, " of course we're not mad.
Of course, if we are medically examined and the thing is thrashed out, they will find we are not mad.
But don't you see that if the thing is thrashed out it will mean letters to this reference and telegrams to that; and at the first word of who we are, we shall be taken out of a madhouse, where we may smoke, to a jail, where we mayn't.
No, if we manage this very quietly, he may merely let us out at the front door as stray revellers.
If there's half an hour of inquiry, we are cooked.
MacIan looked at the grass frowningly for a few seconds, and then said in a new, small and childish voice: " I am awfully stupid, Mr. Turnbull; you must be patient with me.
Turnbull caught Evan's elbow again with quite another gesture.
The doctor with the pointed beard was already slanting it forward at a more than usually acute angle, with the smile that expressed expectancy.
said the doctor, hurriedly.
He led them rapidly into a small but imposing apartment, which seemed to be built and furnished entirely in red-varnished wood.
There was one desk occupied with carefully docketed papers; and there were several chairs of the red-varnished wood-though of different shape.
All along the wall ran something that might have been a bookcase, only that it was not filled with books, but with flat, oblong slabs or cases of the same polished dark-red consistency.
What those flat wooden cases were they could form no conception.
The doctor sat down with a polite impatience on his professional perch; MacIan remained standing, but Turnbull threw himself almost with luxury into a hard wooden arm-chair.
The plain fact is, that he and I and a pack of silly men and girls have organized a game across this part of the country-a sort of combination of hare and hounds and hide and seek-I dare say you've heard of it.
We are the hares, and, seeing your high wall look so inviting, we tumbled over it, and naturally were a little startled with what we found on the other side.
Turnbull had expected him to ask what place was the headquarters of the new exhilarating game, and who were the male and female enthusiasts who had brought it to such perfection; in fact, Turnbull was busy making up these personal and topographical particulars.
As the doctor did not ask the question, he grew slightly uneasy, and risked the question: " I hope you will accept my assurance that the thing was an accident and that no intrusion was meant.
I suppose there will be someone to let us out?
asked Turnbull, in some surprise.
cried Turnbull, losing his manners for the first time.
And with that the man of the world was struck dumb, and, as in all intolerable moments, the word was with the unworldly.
MacIan took one stride to the table, leant across it, and said: " We can't stop here, we're not mad people!
You know nothing about us.
You haven't even examined us.
The doctor threw back his head and beard.
The doctor got languidly to his feet.
He went across to the curious mock book-shelves and took down one of the flat mahogany cases.
This he opened with a curious key at his watch-chain, and laying back a flap revealed a quire of foolscap covered with close but quite clear writing.
The first three words were in such large copy-book hand that they caught the eye even at a distance.
They were: " MacIan, Evan Stuart.
Evan bent his angry eagle face over it; yet something blurred it and he could never swear he saw it distinctly.
He saw something that began: " Prenatal influences predisposing to mania.
Grandfather believed in return of the Stuarts.
Mother carried bone of St. Eulalia with which she touched children in sickness.
Marked religious mania at early age ----
Evan fell back and fought for his speech.
if all this world I have walked in had been as sane as my mother was.
Then he compressed his temples with his hands, as if to crush them.
And then lifted suddenly a face that looked fresh and young, as if he had dipped and washed it in some holy well.
I will pay the penalty of having enjoyed God in this monstrous modern earth that cannot enjoy man or beast.
I will die happy in your madhouse, only because I know what I know.
Let it be granted, then-MacIan is a mystic; MacIan is a maniac.
But this honest shopkeeper and editor whom I have dragged on my inhuman escapades, you cannot keep him.
He will go free, thank God, he is not down in any damned document.
His ancestor, I am certain, did not die at Culloden.
His mother, I swear, had no relics.
Let my friend out of your front door, and as for me ----
The doctor had already gone across to the laden shelves, and after a few minutes'short-sighted peering, had pulled down another parallelogram of dark-red wood.
This also he unlocked on the table, and with the same unerring egotistic eye on of the company saw the words, written in large letters: " Turnbull, James.
Hitherto Turnbull himself had somewhat scornfully surrendered his part in the whole business; but he was too honest and unaffected not to start at his own name.
After the name, the inscription appeared to run: " Unique case of Eleutheromania.
Parentage, as so often in such cases, prosaic and healthy.
Eleutheromaniac signs occurred early, however, leading him to attach himself to the individualist Bradlaugh.
Recent outbreak of pure anarchy ----
Turnbull slammed the case to, almost smashing it, and said with a burst of savage laughter: " Oh!
come along, MacIan; I don't care so much, even about getting out of the madhouse, if only we get out of this room.
You were right enough, MacIan, when you spoke about-about mad doctors.
Somehow they found themselves outside in the cool, green garden, and then, after a stunned silence, Turnbull said: " There is one thing that was puzzling me all the time, and I understand it now.
The whole thing explains itself easily enough.
That undefended wall was an open trap.
It was a trap laid for two celebrated lunatics.
They saw us get in right enough.
And they will see that we do not get out.
Evan gazed at the garden wall, gravely for more than a minute, and then he nodded without a word.
The system of espionage in the asylum was so effective and complete that in practice the patients could often enjoy a sense of almost complete solitude.
They could stray up so near to the wall in an apparently unwatched garden as to find it easy to jump over it.
They would only have found the error of their calculations if they had tried to jump.
Under this insulting liberty, in this artificial loneliness, Evan MacIan was in the habit of creeping out into the garden after dark-especially upon moonlight nights.
The moon, indeed, was for him always a positive magnet in a manner somewhat hard to explain to those of a robuster attitude.
Evidently, Apollo is to the full as poetical as Diana; but it is not a question of poetry in the matured and intellectual sense of the word.
It is a question of a certain solid and childish fancy.
The sun is in the strict and literal sense invisible; that is to say, that by our bodily eyes it cannot properly be seen.
But the moon is a much simpler thing; a naked and nursery sort of thing.
It hangs in the sky quite solid and quite silver and quite useless; it is one huge celestial snowball.
It was at least some such infantile facts and fancies which led Evan again and again during his dehumanized imprisonment to go out as if to shoot the moon.
He was out in the garden on one such luminous and ghostly night, when the steady moonshine toned down all the colours of the garden until almost the strongest tints to be seen were the strong soft blue of the sky and the large lemon moon.
He was walking with his face turned up to it in that rather half-witted fashion which might have excused the error of his keepers; and as he gazed he became aware of something little and lustrous flying close to the lustrous orb, like a bright chip knocked off the moon.
At first he thought it was a mere sparkle or refraction in his own eyesight; he blinked and cleared his eyes.
Then he thought it was a falling star; only it did not fall.
It jerked awkwardly up and down in a way unknown among meteors and strangely reminiscent of the works of man.
The next moment the thing drove right across the moon, and from being silver upon blue, suddenly became black upon silver; then although it passed the field of light in a flash its outline was unmistakable though eccentric.
The vessel took one long and sweeping curve across the sky and came nearer and nearer to MacIan, like a steam-engine coming round a bend.
It was of pure white steel, and in the moon it gleamed like the armour of Sir Galahad.
The simile of such virginity is not inappropriate; for, as it grew larger and larger and lower and lower, Evan saw that the only figure in it was robed in white from head to foot and crowned with snow-white hair, on which the moonshine lay like a benediction.
The figure stood so still that he could easily have supposed it to be a statue.
Indeed, he thought it was until it spoke.
asked the young man, accepting the monstrous event with a queer and clumsy naturalness; " what is my sword wanted for?
Evan looked up at the lunar orb again as if in irrational appeal-a moon calf bleating to his mother the moon.
But the face of Luna seemed as witless as his own; there is no help in nature against the supernatural; and he looked again at the tall marble figure that might have been made out of solid moonlight.
Then he said in a loud voice: " Who are you?
and the next moment was seized by a sort of choking terror lest his question should be answered.
But the unknown preserved an impenetrable silence for a long space and then only answered: " I must not say who I am until the end of the world; but I may say what I am.
And he lifted his head so that the moon smote full upon his beautiful and ancient face.
The face was the face of a Greek god grown old, but not grown either weak or ugly; there was nothing to break its regularity except a rather long chin with a cleft in it, and this rather added distinction than lessened beauty.
His strong, well-opened eyes were very brilliant but quite colourless like steel.
MacIan was one of those to whom a reverence and self-submission in ritual come quite easy, and are ordinary things.
It was not artificial in him to bend slightly to this solemn apparition or to lower his voice when he said: " Do you bring me some message?
Evan did not ask for or require any explanation.
MacIan clambered into the silver boat, and it rose upward to the stars.
To say that it rose to the stars is no mere metaphor, for the sky had cleared to that occasional and astonishing transparency in which one can see plainly both stars and moon.
As the white-robed figure went upward in his white chariot, he said quite quietly to Evan: " There is an answer to all the folly talked about equality.
Some stars are big and some small; some stand still and some circle around them as they stand.
They can be orderly, but they cannot be equal.
And now England will be beautiful after the same fashion.
The earth will be as beautiful as the heavens, because our kings have come back to us.
It is Capet and Plantagenet and Pendragon.
It is all that good old time of which proverbs tell, that golden reign of Saturn against which gods and men were rebels.
It is all that was ever lost by insolence and overwhelmed in rebellion.
It is your own forefather, MacIan with the broken sword, bleeding without hope at Culloden.
It is Charles refusing to answer the questions of the rebel court.
It is Mary of the magic face confronting the gloomy and grasping peers and the boorish moralities of Knox.
It is Richard, the last Plantagenet, giving his crown to Bolingbroke as to a common brigand.
It is Arthur, overwhelmed in Lyonesse by heathen armies and dying in the mist, doubtful if ever he shall return.
said the old man; " he has returned.
The people are once more taught and ruled as is best; they are happy knights, happy squires, happy servants, happy serfs, if you will; but free at last of that load of vexation and lonely vanity which was called being a citizen.
They were driving through the air towards one region of the sky where the hollow of night seemed darkest and which was quite without stars.
But against this black background there sprang up, picked out in glittering silver, a dome and a cross.
It seemed that it was really newly covered with silver, which in the strong moonlight was like white flame.
But, however, covered or painted, Evan had no difficult in knowing the place again.
He saw the great thoroughfare that sloped upward to the base of its huge pedestal of steps.
And he wondered whether the little shop was still by the side of it and whether its window had been mended.
As the flying ship swept round the dome he observed other alterations.
Round the second gallery, at the base of the dome, ran a second rank of such images, and Evan thought there was another round the steps below.
When they came closer he saw that they were figures in complete armour of steel or silver, each with a naked sword, point upward; and then he saw one of the swords move.
These were not statues but an armed order of chivalry thrown in three circles round the cross.
MacIan drew in his breath, as children do at anything they think utterly beautiful.
For he could imagine nothing that so echoed his own visions of pontifical or chivalric art as this white dome sitting like a vast silver tiara over London, ringed with a triple crown of swords.
As they went sailing down Ludgate Hill, Evan saw that the state of the streets fully answered his companion's claim about the reintroduction of order.
All the old blackcoated bustle with its cockney vivacity and vulgarity had disappeared.
Groups of labourers, quietly but picturesquely clad, were passing up and down in sufficiently large numbers; but it required but a few mounted men to keep the streets in order.
The mounted men were not common policemen, but knights with spurs and plume whose smooth and splendid armour glittered like diamond rather than steel.
Only in one place-at the corner of Bouverie Street-did there appear to be a moment's confusion, and that was due to hurry rather than resistance.
But one old grumbling man did not get out of the way quick enough, and the man on horseback struck him, not severely, across the shoulders with the flat of his sword.
The other did not answer.
Then after a swift silence that took them out across St. James's Park, he said: " The people must be taught to obey; they must learn their own ignorance.
And I am not sure," he continued, turning his back on Evan and looking out of the prow of the ship into the darkness, " I am not sure that I agree with your little maxim about justice.
Discipline for the whole society is surely more important than justice to an individual.
Evan, who was also leaning over the edge, swung round with startling suddenness and stared at the other's back.
Then after a long silence he called out: " Who and what are you?
The other seemed to take no notice, but reverted to the main topic.
MacIan sat craning his neck forward with an extraordinary and unaccountable eagerness.
he cried, twisting and untwisting his long, bony fingers, " go on!
said Evan, with burning eyes.
The beautiful and princely must, of necessity, be impatient with the squalid and ----
cried MacIan, rising to the top of his tremendous stature, " did you think I would have doubted only for that rap with a sword?
I know that noble orders have bad knights, that good knights have bad tempers, that the Church has rough priests and coarse cardinals; I have known it ever since I was born.
you had only to say,'Yes, it is rather a shame,' and I should have forgotten the affair.
But I saw on your mouth the twitch of your infernal sophistry; I knew that something was wrong with you and your cathedrals.
Something is wrong; everything is wrong.
It is not the rightful king who has come home.
said his companion, sternly.
The being in the prow turned slowly round; he looked at Evan with eyes which were like two suns, and put his hand to his mouth just too late to hide an awful smile.
You are not one of God's angels.
The being's hand dropped from his mouth and Evan dropped out of the car.
Turnbull was walking rather rampantly up and down the garden on a gusty evening chewing his cigar and in that mood when every man suppresses an instinct to spit.
He was not, as a rule, a man much acquainted with moods; and the storms and sunbursts of MacIan's soul passed before him as an impressive but unmeaning panorama, like the anarchy of Highland scenery.
Turnbull was one of those men in whom a continuous appetite and industry of the intellect leave the emotions very simple and steady.
His heart was in the right place; but he was quite content to leave it there.
It was his head that was his hobby.
But even the cheerful inner life of a logician may be upset by a lunatic asylum, to say nothing of whiffs of memory from a lady in Jersey, and the little red-bearded man on this windy evening was in a dangerous frame of mind.
Plain and positive as he was, the influence of earth and sky may have been greater on him than he imagined; and the weather that walked the world at that moment was as red and angry as Turnbull.
Long strips and swirls of tattered and tawny cloud were dragged downward to the west exactly as torn red raiment would be dragged.
And so strong and pitiless was the wind that it whipped away fragments of red-flowering bushes or of copper beech, and drove them also across the garden, a drift of red leaves, like the leaves of autumn, as in parody of the red and driven rags of cloud.
There was a sense in earth and heaven as of everything breaking up, and all the revolutionist in Turnbull rejoiced that it was breaking up.
The trees were breaking up under the wind, even in the tall strength of their bloom: the clouds were breaking up and losing even their large heraldic shapes.
Shards and shreds of copper cloud split off continually and floated by themselves, and for some reason the truculent eye of Turnbull was attracted to one of these careering cloudlets, which seemed to him to career in an exaggerated manner.
Also it kept its shape, which is unusual with clouds shaken off; also its shape was of an odd sort.
Turnbull continued to stare at it, and in a little time occurred that crucial instant when a thing, however incredible, is accepted as a fact.
The copper cloud was tumbling down towards the earth, like some gigantic leaf from the copper beeches.
And as it came nearer it was evident, first, that it was not a cloud, and, second, that it was not itself of the colour of copper; only, being burnished like a mirror, it had reflected the red-brown colours of the burning clouds.
As the thing whirled like a windswept leaf down towards the wall of the garden it was clear that it was some sort of air-ship made of metal, and slapping the air with big broad fins of steel.
Turnbull's first movement after sixty motionless seconds was to turn round and look at the large, luxuriant parallelogram of the garden and the long, low rectangular building beyond.
There was not a soul or a stir of life within sight.
And he had a quite meaningless sensation, as if there never really had been any one else there except he since the foundation of the world.
Stiffening in himself the masculine but mirthless courage of the atheist, he drew a little nearer to the wall and, catching the man at a slightly different angle of the evening light, could see his face and figure quite plain.
Two facts about him stood out in the picked colours of some piratical schoolboy's story.
The first was that his lean brown body was bare to the belt of his loose white trousers; the other that through hygiene, affectation, or whatever other cause, he had a scarlet handkerchief tied tightly but somewhat aslant across his brow.
After these two facts had become emphatic, others appeared sufficiently important.
One was that under the scarlet rag the hair was plentiful, but white as with the last snows of mortality.
Another was that under the mop of white and senile hair the face was strong, handsome, and smiling, with a well-cut profile and a long cloven chin.
asked Turnbull, with an explosion of temper as sudden as a pistol shot.
Turnbull looked at the fire-swept sky and the wind-stricken woodlands, and kept on repeating the word voicelessly to himself-the word that did indeed so thoroughly express his mood of rage as it had been among those red clouds and rocking tree-tops.
To some cause he could never explain he found himself completing the sentence on the top of the wall, having automatically followed the stranger so far.
But when the stranger silently indicated the rope that led to the machine, he found himself pausing and saying: " I can't leave MacIan behind in this den.
Somehow the muttering Turnbull found himself in the flying ship also, and it swung up into the sunset.
That was all the worth of their French Revolution and regicide.
The boys never really dared to defy the schoolmaster.
They seemed rising into stronger and stronger sunlight, as if it were sunrise rather than sunset.
But when they looked down at the earth they saw it growing darker and darker.
The lunatic asylum in its large rectangular grounds spread below them in a foreshortened and infantile plan, and looked for the first time the grotesque thing that it was.
But the clear colours of the plan were growing darker every moment.
The masses of rose or rhododendron deepened from crimson to violet.
The maze of gravel pathways faded from gold to brown.
By the time they had risen a few hundred feet higher nothing could be seen of that darkening landscape except the lines of lighted windows, each one of which, at least, was the light of one lost intelligence.
But on them as they swept upward better and braver winds seemed to blow, and on them the ruby light of evening seemed struck, and splashed like red spurts from the grapes of Dionysus.
Below them the fallen lights were literally the fallen stars of servitude.
And above them all the red and raging clouds were like the leaping flags of liberty.
The man with the cloven chin seemed to have a singular power of understanding thoughts; for, as Turnbull felt the whole universe tilt and turn over his head, the stranger said exactly the right thing.
said he; " and if once everything is upset, He will be upset on top of it.
Then, as Turnbull made no answer, his host continued:
You have only to climb far enough towards the morning star to feel that you are coming down to it.
You have only to dive deep enough into the abyss to feel that you are rising.
That is the only glory of this universe-it is a giddy universe.
Then, as Turnbull was still silent, he added:
All the high things are sinking low and all the big things looking small.
All the people who think they are aspiring find they are falling head foremost.
And all the people who think they are condescending find they are climbing up a precipice.
That is the intoxication of space.
That is the only joy of eternity-doubt.
There is only one pleasure the angels can possibly have in flying, and that is, that they do not know whether they are on their head or their heels.
Then, finding his companion still mute, he fell himself into a smiling and motionless meditation, at the end of which he said suddenly:
Turnbull sprang up as if spurning the steel car from under his feet.
I have known him for a month, and I have not retracted a single ----
Turnbull stood in an attitude which might well have meant pitching the other man out of the flying ship.
Then, addressing the other's indolent and indifferent back, he cried: " In God's name what do you mean?
And the other answered without turning round:
Turnbull spat over the edge of the car and fell back furiously into his seat.
The other continued still unruffled, and staring over the edge idly as an angler stares down at a stream.
But, of course, these men like MacIan are awfully clever, especially when they pretend to be stupid.
Turnbull leapt up again in a living fury and cried: " What have I got to do with MacIan?
I believe all I ever believed, and disbelieve all I ever disbelieved.
What does all this mean, and what do you want with me here?
Then for the first time the other lifted himself from the edge of the car and faced him.
repeated Turnbull, even in his dazed state a little touchy about such a dogma; " how do you know it will be the last?
The man laid himself back in his reposeful attitude, and said:
The engine stopped, stooped, and dived almost as deliberately as a man bathing; in their downward rush they swept within fifty yards of a big bulk of stone that Turnbull knew only too well.
The last red anger of the sunset was ended; the dome of heaven was dark; the lanes of flaring light in the streets below hardly lit up the base of the building.
But he saw that it was St. Paul's Cathedral, and he saw that on the top of it the ball was still standing erect, but the cross was stricken and had fallen sideways.
Then only he cared to look down into the streets, and saw that they were inflamed with uproar and tossing passions.
Many of the insurgents are simple people, and they naturally regard it as a happy omen.
Of course I apologize for the word prayer.
The flying ship had come down upon a sort of curve, and was now rising again.
The higher and higher it rose the broader and broader became the scenes of flame and desolation underneath.
Ludgate Hill indeed had been an uncaptured and comparatively quiet height, altered only by the startling coincidence of the cross fallen awry.
All the other thoroughfares on all sides of that hill were full of the pulsation and the pain of battle, full of shaking torches and shouting faces.
When at length they had risen high enough to have a bird's-eye view of the whole campaign, Turnbull was already intoxicated.
He had smelt gunpowder, which was the incense of his own revolutionary religion.
Turnbull wrinkled his forehead.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
Turnbull looked down and saw that the polished car was literally lit up from underneath by the far-flung fires from below.
Underneath whole squares and solid districts were in flames, like prairies or forests on fire.
His celebrated maxim has been quite adopted.
I mean the three celebrated sentences:'No man should be unemployed.
Destroy the unemployables.'
There was a silence, and then Turnbull said in a rather strained voice: " And do I understand that this good work is going on under here?
They were a definite hindrance to it.
There are happy babes unborn ready to burst the doors when these drivellers are swept away.
Somewhat to the speaker's surprise this did not inflame the sensitive sceptic; he had the air of thinking thoroughly, and then he said: " No, I don't think it's my friend MacIan that taught me that.
I think I should always have said that I don't like this.
These people have rights.
repeated the unknown in a tone quite indescribable.
Then he added with a more open sneer: " Perhaps they also have souls.
said Turnbull, sternly; " that is quite enough for me.
I understood you to say that you thought life sacred.
cried his mentor with a sort of idealistic animation.
Life is sacred-but lives are not sacred.
We are improving Life by removing lives.
Can you, as a free-thinker, find any fault in that?
It really comes to this: You approve of taking away life from those to whom it is a triumph and a pleasure.
But you will not take away life from those to whom it is a burden and a toil.
Turnbull rose to his feet in the car with considerable deliberation, but his face seemed oddly pale.
The other went on with enthusiasm.
he cried; " but new lives for old!
On that very place where now there sprawls one drunken wastrel of a pavement artist more or less wishing he were dead-on that very spot there shall in the future be living pictures; there shall be golden girls and boys leaping in the sun.
Turnbull, still standing up, opened his lips.
he said, quite calmly, like on stopping an omnibus.
There was a long and peculiar silence, and then the man driving the flying machine said quite coolly: " I won't take you back.
And then Turnbull said equally coolly: " Then I'll jump out of the car.
The unknown rose to his full height, and the expression in his eyes seemed to be made of ironies behind ironies, as two mirrors infinitely reflect each other.
At last he said, very gravely: " Do you think I am the devil?
I don't believe in you or your flying ship or your last fight of the world.
I say as a fact of dogma and faith that it is all a nightmare.
And I will be a martyr for my faith as much as St. Catherine, for I will jump out of this ship and risk waking up safe in bed.
After swaying twice with the swaying vessel he dived over the side as one dives into the sea.
For some incredible moments stars and space and planets seemed to shoot up past him as the sparks fly upward; and yet in that sickening descent he was full of some unnatural happiness.
He could connect it with no idea except one that half escaped him-what Evan had said of the difference between Christ and Satan; that it was by Christ's own choice that He descended into hell.
When he again realized anything, he was lying on his elbow on the lawn of the lunatic asylum, and the last red of the sunset had not yet disappeared.
Evan MacIan was standing a few yards off looking at him in absolute silence.
He had not the moral courage to ask MacIan if there had been anything astounding in the manner of his coming there, nor did MacIan seem to have any question to ask, or perhaps any need to ask it.
The two men came slowly towards each other, and found the same expression on each other's faces.
Then, for the first time in all their acquaintance, they shook hands.
Almost as if this were a kind of unconscious signal, it brought Dr. Quayle bounding out of a door and running across the lawn.
he exclaimed with a relieved giggle.
I want to speak to you both.
They followed him into his shiny wooden office where their damning record was kept.
Dr. Quayle sat down on a swivel chair and swung round to face them.
His carved smile had suddenly disappeared.
Your cases have been under special consideration, and the Master himself has decided that you ought to be treated specially and-er-under somewhat simpler conditions.
The doctor did not reply, and MacIan said: " I expected this.
His eyes had begun to glow.
The doctor answered, looking at his desk and playing with a key: " Well, in certain cases that give anxiety-it is often better ----
You imprison two perfectly sane men in a madhouse because you have made up a long word.
They take it in good temper, walk and talk in your garden like monks who have found a vocation, are civil even to you, you damned druggists'hack!
Behave not only more sanely than any of your patients, but more sanely than half the sane men outside, and you have the soul-stifling cheek to say that they give anxiety.
MacIan took one of his immense strides forward and stood over the doctor with flaming eyes.
I believe you to be a low, gibbering degenerate.
Let us see the head of the asylum.
The tall Highlander, bending over him, put one hand on his shoulder with fatherly interest.
And I wouldn't be hanged for it.
Dr. Quayle got to his feet in a mixture of sudden hysteria and clumsy presence of mind.
He almost ran out of the room, and the two followed swiftly on his flying coat tails.
He knocked at an ordinary varnished door in the corridor.
When a voice said, " Come in," MacIan's breath went hissing back through his teeth into his chest.
Turnbull was more impetuous, and opened the door.
It was a neat and well-appointed room entirely lined with a medical library.
It was only for a flash that his face was thus lifted.
Then he bent his silver head over his notes once more, and said, without looking up again:
Turnbull and MacIan looked at each other, and said more than they could ever say with tongues or swords.
Among other things they said that to that particular Head of the institution it was a waste of time to appeal, and they followed Dr. Quayle out of the room.
The instant they stepped out into the corridor four sturdy figures stepped from four sides, pinioned them, and ran them along the galleries.
They might very likely have thrown their captors right and left had they been inclined to resist, but for some nameless reason they were more inclined to laugh.
A mixture of mad irony with childish curiosity made them feel quite inclined to see what next twist would be taken by their imbecile luck.
They were dragged down countless cold avenues lined with glazed tiles, different only in being of different lengths and set at different angles.
They were so many and so monotonous that to escape back by them would have been far harder than fleeing from the Hampton Court maze.
Only the fact that windows grew fewer, coming at longer intervals, and the fact that when the windows did come they seemed shadowed and let in less light, showed that they were winding into the core or belly of some enormous building.
After a little time the glazed corridors began to be lit by electricity.
At last, when they had walked nearly a mile in those white and polished tunnels, they came with quite a shock to the futile finality of a cul-de-sac.
All that white and weary journey ended suddenly in an oblong space and a blank white wall.
But in the white wall there were two iron doors painted white on which were written, respectively, in neat black capitals B and C.
But before the doors had clanged upon their dazed victims, MacIan had been able to say to Turnbull with a strange drawl of significance: " I wonder who A is.
Turnbull made an automatic struggle before he allowed himself to be thrown into the cell.
Hence it happened that he was the last to enter, and was still full of the exhilaration of the adventures for at least five minutes after the echo of the clanging door had died away.
Then, when silence had sunk deep and nothing happened for two and a half hours, it suddenly occurred to him that this was the end of his life.
He was hidden and sealed up in this little crack of stone until the flesh should fall off his bones.
He was dead, and the world had won.
His cell was of an oblong shape, but very long in comparison with its width.
It was just wide enough to permit the arms to be fully extended with the dumb-bells, which were hung up on the left wall, very dusty.
It was, however, long enough for a man to walk one thirty-fifth part of a mile if he traversed it entirely.
On the same principle a row of fixed holes, quite close together, let in to the cells by pipes what was alleged to be the freshest air.
For these great scientific organizers insisted that a man should be healthy even if he was miserable.
They provided a walk long enough to give him exercise and holes large enough to give him oxygen.
There their interest in human nature suddenly ceased.
It seemed never to have occurred to them that the benefit of exercise belongs partly to the benefit of liberty.
They had not entertained the suggestion that the open air is only one of the advantages of the open sky.
They administered air in secret, but in sufficient doses, as if it were a medicine.
They suggested walking, as if no man had ever felt inclined to walk.
Above all, the asylum authorities insisted on their own extraordinary cleanliness.
Every morning, while Turnbull was still half asleep on his iron bedstead which was lifted half-way up the wall and clamped to it with iron, four sluices or metal mouths opened above him at the four corners of the chamber and washed it white of any defilement.
Turnbull's solitary soul surged up against this sickening daily solemnity.
he cried, bitterly; " they have hidden me under mountains.
I shall be here till I rot.
Why the blazes should it matter to them whether I am dirty or clean.
Every morning and evening an iron hatchway opened in his oblong cell, and a brown hairy hand or two thrust in a plate of perfectly cooked lentils and a big bowl of cocoa.
He was not underfed any more than he was underexercised or asphyxiated.
He had ample walking space, ample air, ample and even filling food.
The only objection was that he had nothing to walk towards, nothing to feast about, and no reason whatever for drawing the breath of life.
Even the shape of his cell especially irritated him.
It was a long, narrow parallelogram, which had a flat wall at one end and ought to have had a flat wall at the other; but that end was broken by a wedge or angle of space, like the prow of a ship.
After three days of silence and cocoa, this angle at the end began to infuriate Turnbull.
It maddened him to think that two lines came together and pointed at nothing.
After the fifth day he was reckless, and poked his head into the corner.
After twenty-five days he almost broke his head against it.
Then he became quite cool and stupid again, and began to examine it like a sort of Robinson Crusoe.
Almost unconsciously it was his instinct to examine outlets, and he found himself paying particular attention to the row of holes which let in the air into his last house of life.
He soon discovered that these air-holes were all the ends and mouths of long leaden tubes which doubtless carried air from some remote watering-place near Margate.
One evening while he was engaged in the fifth investigation he noticed something like twilight in one of these dumb mouths, as compared with the darkness of the others.
Thrusting his finger in as far as it would go, he found a hole and flapping edge in the tube.
This he rent open and instantly saw a light behind; it was at least certain that he had struck some other cell.
It is a characteristic of all things now called " efficient ", which means mechanical and calculated, that if they go wrong at all they go entirely wrong.
There is no power of retrieving a defeat, as in simpler and more living organisms.
A strong gun can conquer a strong elephant, but a wounded elephant can easily conquer a broken gun.
Thus the Prussian monarchy in the eighteenth century, or now, can make a strong army merely by making the men afraid.
But it does it with the permanent possibility that the men may some day be more afraid of their enemies than of their officers.
Thus the drainage in our cities so long as it is quite solid means a general safety, but if there is one leak it means concentrated poison-an explosion of deathly germs like dynamite, a spirit of stink.
Thus, indeed, all that excellent machinery which is the swiftest thing on earth in saving human labour is also the slowest thing on earth in resisting human interference.
It may be easier to get chocolate for nothing out of a shopkeeper than out of an automatic machine.
But if you did manage to steal the chocolate, the automatic machine would be much less likely to run after you.
Turnbull was not long in discovering this truth in connexion with the cold and colossal machinery of this great asylum.
He had been shaken by many spiritual states since the instant when he was pitched head foremost into that private cell which was to be his private room till death.
He had felt a high fit of pride and poetry, which had ebbed away and left him deadly cold.
Then he had a period of mere madness not to be written of by decent men, but only by those few dirty novelists hallooed on by the infernal huntsman to hunt down and humiliate human nature.
This also passed, but left behind it a feverish distaste for many of the mere objects around him.
Long after he had returned to sanity and such hopeless cheerfulness as a man might have on a desert island, he disliked the regular squares of the pattern of wall and floor and the triangle that terminated his corridor.
Above all, he had a hatred, deep as the hell he did not believe in, for the objectless iron peg in the wall.
But in all his moods, sane or insane, intolerant or stoical, he never really doubted this: that the machine held him as light and as hopelessly as he had from his birth been held by the hopeless cosmos of his own creed.
He knew well the ruthless and inexhaustible resources of our scientific civilization.
He no more expected rescue from a medical certificate than rescue from the solar system.
In many of his Robinson Crusoe moods he thought kindly of MacIan as of some quarrelsome school-fellow who had long been dead.
He thought of leaving in the cell when he died a rigid record of his opinions, and when he began to write them down on scraps of envelope in his pocket, he was startled to discover how much they had changed.
Then he remembered the Beauchamp Tower, and tried to write his blazing scepticism on the wall, and discovered that it was all shiny tiles on which nothing could be either drawn or carved.
Then for an instant there hung and broke above him like a high wave the whole horror of scientific imprisonment, which manages to deny a man not only liberty, but every accidental comfort of bondage.
In the old filthy dungeons men could carve their prayers or protests in the rock.
Here the white and slippery walls escaped even from bearing witness.
The old prisoners could make a pet of a mouse or a beetle strayed out of a hole.
Here the unpierceable walls were washed every morning by an automatic sluice.
There was no natural corruption and no merciful decay by which a living thing could enter in.
Then James Turnbull looked up and saw the high invincible hatefulness of the society in which he lived, and saw the hatefulness of something else also, which he told himself again and again was not the cosmos in which he believed.
But all the time he had never once doubted that the five sides of his cell were for him the wall of the world henceforward, and it gave him a shock of surprise even to discover the faint light through the aperture in the ventilation tube.
But he had forgotten how close efficiency has to pack everything together and how easily, therefore, a pipe here or there may leak.
Turnbull thrust his first finger down the aperture, and at last managed to make a slight further fissure in the piping.
The light that came up from beyond was very faint, and apparently indirect; it seemed to fall from some hole or window higher up.
As he was screwing his eye to peer at this grey and greasy twilight he was astonished to see another human finger very long and lean come down from above towards the broken pipe and hook it up to something higher.
The lighted aperture was abruptly blackened and blocked, presumably by a face and mouth, for something human spoke down the tube, though the words were not clear.
asked Turnbull, trembling with excitement, yet wary and quite resolved not to spoil any chance.
After a few indistinct sounds the voice came down with a strong Argyllshire accent:
Sentiments beyond speech surged up in Turnbull and silenced him for a space just long enough to be painful.
Then he said with his old gaiety: " I vote we talk a little first; I don't want to murder the first man I have met for ten million years.
For a mortal month I have been alone with God.
Turnbull started, and it was on the tip of his tongue to answer: " Alone with God!
Then you do not know what loneliness is.
But he answered, after all, in his old defiant style: " Alone with God, were you?
And I suppose you found his Majesty's society rather monotonous?
After a very long silence the voice of MacIan said: " What do you really hate most in your place?
Perhaps my brain really has gone, but I detest that iron spike in the left wall more than the damned desolation or the damned cocoa.
Have you got one in your cell?
His fellow-prisoner could only repeat the words.
Even now I've got it out I can't discover what it was for.
But I've found out something a long sight funnier.
Three weeks afterwards MacIan had managed to open up communications which made his meaning plain.
By that time the two captives had fully discovered and demonstrated that weakness in the very nature of modern machinery to which we have already referred.
The very fact that they were isolated from all companions meant that they were free from all spies, and as there were no gaolers to be bribed, so there were none to be baffled.
Machinery brought them their cocoa and cleaned their cells; that machinery was as helpless as it was pitiless.
A little patient violence, conducted day after day amid constant mutual suggestion, opened an irregular hole in the wall, large enough to let in a small man, in the exact place where there had been before the tiny ventilation holes.
Turnbull tumbled somehow into MacIan's apartment, and his first glance found out that the iron spike was indeed plucked from its socket, and left, moreover, another ragged hole into some hollow place behind.
But for this MacIan's cell was the duplicate of Turnbull's-a long oblong ending in a wedge and lined with cold and lustrous tiles.
The small hole from which the peg had been displaced was in that short oblique wall at the end nearest to Turnbull's.
That individual looked at it with a puzzled face.
MacIan answered briefly: " Another cell.
said his companion, even more puzzled; " the doors of our cells are at the other end.
In the pause of perplexity that followed, an eerie and sinister feeling crept over Turnbull's stubborn soul in spite of himself.
The notion of the doorless room chilled him with that sense of half-witted curiosity which one has when something horrible is half understood.
They have filled England with frenzy and galloping in order to capture us and wipe us out-in order to kill us.
And they have killed us, for you and I have only made a hole in our coffins.
But though this hatred that they felt for us is bigger than they felt for Bonaparte, and more plain and practical than they would feel for Jack the Ripper, yet it is not we whom the people of this place hate most.
A cold and quivering impatience continued to crawl up Turnbull's spine; he had never felt so near to superstition and supernaturalism, and it was not a pretty sort of superstition either.
God knows how they did it, for he was let in by neither door nor window, nor lowered through any opening above.
I expect these iron handles that we both hate have been part of some damned machinery for walling him up.
I have looked through the hole at him; but I cannot stand looking at him long, because his face is turned away from me and he does not move.
Al Turnbull's unnatural and uncompleted feelings found their outlet in rushing to the aperture and looking into the unknown room.
It was a third oblong cell exactly like the other two except that it was doorless, and except that on one of the walls was painted a large black A like the B and C outside their own doors.
The letter in this case was not painted outside, because this prison had no outside.
On the same kind of tiled floor, of which the monotonous squares had maddened Turnbull's eye and brain, was sitting a figure which was startlingly short even for a child, only that the enormous head was ringed with hair of a frosty grey.
After six still seconds Turnbull could stand it no longer, but called out to the dwarfish thing-in what words heaven knows.
The thing got up with the promptitude of an animal, and turning round offered the spectacle of two owlish eyes and a huge grey-and-white beard not unlike the plumage of an owl.
This extraordinary beard covered him literally to his feet (not that that was very far), and perhaps it was as well that it did, for portions of his remaining clothing seemed to fall off whenever he moved.
One talks trivially of a face like parchment, but this old man's face was so wrinkled that it was like a parchment loaded with hieroglyphics.
The lines of his face were so deep and complex that one could see five or ten different faces besides the real one, as one can see them in an elaborate wall-paper.
And yet while his face seemed like a scripture older than the gods, his eyes were quite bright, blue, and startled like those of a baby.
They looked as if they had only an instant before been fitted into his head.
Everything depended so obviously upon whether this buried monster spoke that Turnbull did not know or care whether he himself had spoken.
He said something or nothing.
And then he waited for this dwarfish voice that had been hidden under the mountains of the world.
At last it did speak, and spoke in English, with a foreign accent that was neither Latin nor Teutonic.
He suddenly stretched out a long and very dirty forefinger, and cried in a voice of clear recognition, like a child's: " That's a hole.
He digested the discovery for some seconds, sucking his finger, and then he cried, with a crow of laughter: " And that's a head come through it.
The hilarious energy in this idiot attitude gave Turnbull another sick turn.
He had grown to tolerate those dreary and mumbling madmen who trailed themselves about the beautiful asylum gardens.
But there was something new and subversive of the universe in the combination of so much cheerful decision with a body without a brain.
he asked at last with embarrassment.
Yes," said the old man, nodding a great many times and beaming like a flattered landlord.
Long and narrow, with a point.
Like this," and he made lovingly with his hands a map of the room in the air.
asked Turnbull in great distress.
The words Turnbull spoke broke out of him in pure pity.
The weird old person opened his broad blue eyes and fixed Turnbull with a stare extraordinarily severe.
Then he turned to MacIan who was standing close behind him, and whose face, now familiar in all its moods, told him easily that Evan had heard the whole of the strange dialogue.
His brain's like a pin-point now.
He just points to things and says that they stick out.
He was standing heavy and still at the other end of the room and staring quietly at the door which for thirty days had sealed them up from the sun.
Turnbull, following the other's eye, stared at the door likewise, and then he also uttered an exclamation.
The iron door was standing about an inch and a half open.
shouted Turnbull with a sudden and furious energy.
You pulled out that iron handle that had screwed up his cell, and it somehow altered the machinery and opened all the doors.
Seizing MacIan by the elbow he bundled him bodily out into the open corridor and ran him on till they saw daylight through a half-darkened window.
All this wilderness of windowless passages was so built into the heart of that fortress of fear that it seemed more than an hour before the fugitives had any good glimpse of the outer world.
Only once or twice in life is it permitted to a man thus to see the very universe from outside, and feel existence itself as an adorable adventure not yet begun.
As they found this shining escape out of that hellish labyrinth they both had simultaneously the sensation of being babes unborn, of being asked by God if they would like to live upon the earth.
They were looking in at one of the seven gates of Eden.
Turnbull was the first to leap into the garden, with an earth-spurning leap like that of one who could really spread his wings and fly.
MacIan, who came an instant after, was less full of mere animal gusto and fuller of a more fearful and quivering pleasure in the clear and innocent flower colours and the high and holy trees.
With one bound they were in that cool and cleared landscape, and they found just outside the door the black-clad gentleman with the cloven chin smilingly regarding them; and his chin seemed to grow longer and longer as he smiled.
Just behind him stood two other doctors: one, the familiar Dr. Quayle, of the blinking eyes and bleating voice; the other, a more commonplace but much more forcible figure, a stout young doctor with short, well-brushed hair and a round but resolute face.
At the sight of the escape these two subordinates uttered a cry and sprang forward, but their superior remained motionless and smiling, and somehow the lack of his support seemed to arrest and freeze them in the very gesture of pursuit.
You don't suppose I should have let these lunatics out of their cells without good reason.
I have the best and fullest reason.
They can be let out of their cell today, because today the whole world has become their cell.
I will have no more medieval mummery of chains and doors.
Let them wander about the earth as they wandered about this garden, and I shall still be their easy master.
Let them take the wings of the morning and abide in the uttermost parts of the sea-I am there.
Whither shall they go from my presence and whither shall they flee from my spirit?
Courage, Dr. Quayle, and do not be downhearted; the real days of tyranny are only beginning on this earth.
And with that the Master laughed and swung away from them, almost as if his laugh was a bad thing for people to see.
said Turnbull, stepping forward with a respectful resolution.
But the shoulders of the Master only seemed to take on a new and unexpected angle of mockery as he strode away.
Turnbull swung round with great abruptness to the other two doctors, and said, harshly: " What in snakes does he mean-and who are you?
The small doctor smiled, and Turnbull's anger seemed suddenly to steady him.
Dr. Hutton's smile broke into a laugh which, short as it was, had the suspicion of a shake in it.
Why did the Master lock us up in a couple of cupboards like jars of pickles for a mortal month, and why does he now let us walk free in the garden again?
No one has examined me, no one has come near me.
Your chief says that I am only free because he has made other arrangements.
What are those arrangements?
The young man with the round face looked down for a little while and smoked reflectively.
The other and elder doctor had gone pacing nervously by himself upon the lawn.
At length the round face was lifted again, and showed two round blue eyes with a certain frankness in them.
He was getting his bill through Parliament, and organizing the new medical police.
But of course you haven't heard of all that; in fact, you weren't meant to.
asked the impatient inquirer.
Even if you did escape now, any policeman would take you up in the next town if you couldn't show a certificate of sanity from us.
As he very truly said, the mistake was in supposing insanity to be merely an exception or an extreme.
Insanity, like forgetfulness, is simply a quality which enters more or less into all human beings; and for practical purposes it is more necessary to know whose mind is really trustworthy than whose has some accidental taint.
We have therefore reversed the existing method, and people now have to prove that they are sane.
In the first village you entered, the village constable would notice that you were not wearing on the left lapel of your coat the small pewter S which is now necessary to any one who walks about beyond asylum bounds or outside asylum hours.
Dr. Hutton nodded with gravity.
The doctor showed his whole row of teeth in a smile.
Turnbull gave one stamp upon the gravel, then pulled himself together, and resumed: " But why should your infernal head medicine-man lock us up in separate cells while he was turning England into a madhouse?
I'm not the Prime Minister; we're not the House of Lords.
inquired Turnbull, stamping again.
MacIan, who had not spoken yet, made one stride forward and stood with shaking limbs and shining eyes.
Then he added in a low but not inaudible voice: " Except one-whom he feared worse, and has buried deeper.
Turnbull followed him in silence as he strode away, but just before he vanished, turned and spoke again to the doctors.
Dr. Hutton smiled his open smile once more and bowed slightly.
Turnbull swung round without a word, and he and his companion were lost in the lustrous leafage of the garden.
They noticed nothing special about the scene, except that the garden seemed more exquisite than ever in the deepening sunset, and that there seemed to be many more people, whether patients or attendants, walking about in it.
From behind the two black-coated doctors as they stood on the lawn another figure somewhat similarly dressed strode hurriedly past them, having also grizzled hair and an open flapping frock-coat.
Both his decisive step and dapper black array marked him out as another medical man, or at least a man in authority, and as he passed Turnbull the latter was aroused by a strong impression of having seen the man somewhere before.
It was no one that he knew well, yet he was certain that it was someone at whom he had at sometime or other looked steadily.
It was neither the face of a friend nor of an enemy; it aroused neither irritation nor tenderness, yet it was a face which had for some reason been of great importance in his life.
Turning and returning, and making detours about the garden, he managed to study the man's face again and again-a moustached, somewhat military face with a monocle, the sort of face that is aristocratic without being distinguished.
Turnbull could not remember any particular doctors in his decidedly healthy existence.
Was the man a long-lost uncle, or was he only somebody who had sat opposite him regularly in a railway train?
At that moment the man knocked down his own eye-glass with a gesture of annoyance; Turnbull remembered the gesture, and the truth sprang up solid in front of him.
The man with the moustaches was Cumberland Vane, the London police magistrate before whom he and MacIan had once stood on their trial.
The magistrate must have been transferred to some other official duties-to something connected with the inspection of asylums.
Turnbull's heart gave a leap of excitement which was half hope.
As a magistrate Mr. Cumberland Vane had been somewhat careless and shallow, but certainly kindly, and not inaccessible to common sense so long as it was put to him in strictly conventional language.
He was at least an authority of a more human and refreshing sort than the crank with the wagging beard or the fiend with the forked chin.
He went straight up to the magistrate, and said: " Good evening, Mr. Vane; I doubt if you remember me.
Cumberland Vane screwed the eye-glass into his scowling face for an instant, and then said curtly but not uncivilly: " Yes, I remember you, sir; assault or battery, wasn't it?a fellow broke your window.
A tall fellow-McSomething-case made rather a noise afterwards.
Has he got anything to do with this game?
You were very lenient with us, and did not treat us as criminals when you very well might.
So I am sure you will give us your testimony that, even if we were criminals, we are not lunatics in any legal or medical sense whatever.
I am sure you will use your influence for us.
repeated the magistrate, with a slight start.
Whether you are visiting and inspecting the place, or attached to it as some kind of permanent legal adviser, your opinion must still ----
Cumberland Vane exploded with a detonation of oaths; his face was transfigured with fury and contempt, and yet in some odd way he did not seem specially angry with Turnbull.
he gasped, at length; " I'm not here as an official at all.
The cursed pack of rat-catching chemists all say that I've lost my wits.
cried Turnbull with terrible emphasis.
In the rush of his real astonishment at this towering unreality Turnbull almost added: " Why, you haven't got any to lose.
But he fortunately remembered the remains of his desperate diplomacy.
What put the country into such a state?
Mr. Cumberland Vane laughed outright.
When you were fool enough to agree to fight MacIan, after all, everybody was ready to believe that the Bank of England might paint itself pink with white spots.
I hope I have always fought.
You went further in your language than most of us wanted to go; no good in just hurting one's mother's feelings, I think.
But of course we all knew you were right, and, really, we relied on you.
said the editor of _The Atheist_ with a bursting heart.
He walked away very rapidly and flung himself on a garden seat, and for some six minutes his own wrongs hid from him the huge and hilarious fact that Cumberland Vane had been locked up as a lunatic.
The garden of the madhouse was so perfectly planned, and answered so exquisitely to every hour of daylight, that one could almost fancy that the sunlight was caught there tangled in its tinted trees, as the wise men of Gotham tried to chain the spring to a bush.
Or it seemed as if this ironic paradise still kept its unique dawn or its special sunset while the rest of the earthly globe rolled through its ordinary hours.
There was one evening, or late afternoon, in particular, which Evan MacIan will remember in the last moments of death.
It was what artists call a daffodil sky, but it is coarsened even by reference to a daffodil.
It was of that innocent lonely yellow which has never heard of orange, though it might turn quite unconsciously into green.
Against it the tops, one might say the turrets, of the clipt and ordered trees were outlined in that shade of veiled violet which tints the tops of lavender.
A white early moon was hardly traceable upon that delicate yellow.
MacIan, I say, will remember this tender and transparent evening, partly because of its virgin gold and silver, and partly because he passed beneath it through the most horrible instant of his life.
Turnbull was sitting on his seat on the lawn, and the golden evening impressed even his positive nature, as indeed it might have impressed the oxen in a field.
He was shocked out of his idle mood of awe by seeing MacIan break from behind the bushes and run across the lawn with an action he had never seen in the man before, with all his experience of the eccentric humours of this Celt.
MacIan fell on the bench, shaking it so that it rattled, and gripped it with his knees like one in dreadful pain of body.
That particular run and tumble is typical only of a man who has been hit by some sudden and incurable evil, who is bitten by a viper or condemned to be hanged.
Turnbull looked up in the white face of his friend and enemy, and almost turned cold at what he saw there.
He had seen the blue but gloomy eyes of the western Highlander troubled by as many tempests as his own west Highland seas, but there had always been a fixed star of faith behind the storms.
Now the star had gone out, and there was only misery.
Yet MacIan had the strength to answer the question where Turnbull, taken by surprise, had not the strength to ask it.
they are right, Turnbull.
He went on with shapeless fluency as if he no longer had the heart to choose or check his speech.
But to see things-to see them walking solid in the sun-things that can't be there-real mystics never do that, Turnbull.
asked the other, incredulously.
MacIan lowered his voice.
Between trying to look scornful and really looking startled, Turnbull's face was confused enough to emit no speech, and Evan went on in monotonous sincerity:
I did shut them, and opened them again, and she was still there-that is, of course, she wasn't --She still had a little fur round her neck, but her dress was a shade brighter than when I really saw her.
You mistook some other poor girl here for her.
They sat for some moments in the mellow silence of the evening garden, a silence that was stifling for the sceptic, but utterly empty and final for the man of faith.
At last he broke out again with the words: " Well, anyhow, if I'm mad, I'm glad I'm mad on that.
Turnbull murmured some clumsy deprecation, and sat stolidly smoking to collect his thoughts; the next instant he had all his nerves engaged in the mere effort to sit still.
Across the clear space of cold silver and a pale lemon sky which was left by the gap in the ilex-trees there passed a slim, dark figure, a profile and the poise of a dark head like a bird's, which really pinned him to his seat with the point of coincidence.
With an effort he got to his feet, and said with a voice of affected insouciance: " By George!
MacIan, she is uncommonly like ----
cried MacIan, with a leap of eagerness that was heart-breaking, " do you see her, too?
And the blaze came back into the centre of his eyes.
Turnbull's tawny eyebrows were pulled together with a peculiar frown of curiosity, and all at once he walked quickly across the lawn.
MacIan sat rigid, but peered after him with open and parched lips.
He saw the sight which either proved him sane or proved the whole universe half-witted; he saw the man of flesh approach that beautiful phantom, saw their gestures of recognition, and saw them against the sunset joining hands.
She advanced quite pleasantly and coolly, and put out her hand.
The moment that he touched it he knew that he was sane even if the solar system was crazy.
She was entirely elegant and unembarrassed.
That is the awful thing about women-they refuse to be emotional at emotional moments, upon some such ludicrous pretext as there being someone else there.
But MacIan was in a condition of criticism much less than the average masculine one, being in fact merely overturned by the rushing riddle of the events.
Evan does not know to this day what particular question he asked, but he vividly remembers that she answered, and every line or fluctuation of her face as she said it.
she said, smiling, and suddenly lifting her level brown eyebrows.
Then she added after a short pause, and with a sort of pride: " I've got a certificate.
Her manner, by the matchless social stoicism of her sex, was entirely suited to a drawing-room, but Evan's reply fell somewhat far short of such a standard, as he only said: " What the devil in hell does all this nonsense mean?
The young woman broke again into one of the maddening and mysterious laughs of femininity.
Then she composed her features, and replied with equal dignity: " Well, if it comes to that, why are you?
The fact that Turnbull had strolled away and was investigating rhododendrons may have been due to Evan's successful prayers to the other world, or possibly to his own pretty successful experience of this one.
But though they two were as isolated as a new Adam and Eve in a pretty ornamental Eden, the lady did not relax by an inch the rigour of her badinage.
cried Evan; " it is impossible!
MacIan stared at her and then at his boots, and then at the sky and then at her again.
He was quite sure now that he himself was not mad, and the fact rather added to his perplexity.
Then he drew nearer to her, and said in a dry and dreadful voice: " Oh, don't condescend to play the fool with such a fool as me.
Are you really locked up here as a patient-because you helped us to escape?
Evan flung his big elbow across his forehead and burst into tears.
The pure lemon of the sky faded into purer white as the great sunset silently collapsed.
The birds settled back into the trees; the moon began to glow with its own light.
Mr. James Turnbull continued his botanical researches into the structure of the rhododendron.
But the lady did not move an inch until Evan had flung up his face again; and when he did he saw by the last gleam of sunlight that it was not only his face that was wet.
The ostensible cause of his removal was the unexpected reappearance of his two other acquaintances walking and talking laboriously along the way, with the black head bent close to the brown one.
Even hollyhocks detained Turnbull but a short time.
Having rapidly absorbed all the important principles affecting the growth of those vegetables, he jumped over a flower-bed and walked back into the building.
The other two came up along the slow course of the path talking and talking.
No one but God knows what they said (for they certainly have forgotten), and if I remembered it I would not repeat it.
When they parted at the head of the walk she put out her hand again in the same well-bred way, although it trembled; he seemed to restrain a gesture as he let it fall.
I really think that after that ----
We are sort of sold to each other-until the stars fall.
Then he looked up suddenly, and said: " By the way, what is your name?
Turnbull walked away, wildly trying to explain to himself the presence of two personal acquaintances so different as Vane and the girl.
As he skirted a low hedge of laurel, an enormously tall young man leapt over it, stood in front of him, and almost fell on his neck as if seeking to embrace him.
almost sobbed the young man, who was in the highest spirits.
I say, what did you do with my yacht?
The young man sat down on the gravel path and went into ecstasies of laughter.
And he went off again into mirth as innocent as wedding-bells.
Turnbull, whose powers of surprise were exhausted, rolled his round grey eyes and said, " Mr. Wilkinson, I think," because he could not think of anything else to say.
The tall man sitting on the gravel bowed with urbanity, and said: " Quite at your service.
Not to be confused with the Wilkinsons of Cumberland; and as I say, old boy, what have you done with my yacht?
You see, they've locked me up here-in this garden-and a yacht would be a sort of occupation for an unmarried man.
Why, I want to speak to Mr.
Mr. Turnbull made some movement rather of surrender than assent, and the doctor caught it up exquisitely, showing even more of his two front teeth.
And with flying frock-coat he led Turnbull rapidly round the corner of a path.
They are monotonous and maddening.
The man you have just been talking to, poor fellow, is one of the strongest cases of pure _idee fixe_ that we have.
It's very sad, and I'm afraid utterly incurable.
He keeps on telling everybody "and the doctor lowered his voice confidentially --" he tells everybody that two people have taken is yacht.
His account of how he lost it is quite incoherent.
Turnbull stamped his foot on the gravel path, and called out: " Oh, I can't stand this.
It is so rare, in fact, that in one classification of these maladies it is entered under a heading by itself-Perdinavititis, mental inflammation creating the impression that one has lost a ship.
Really," he added, with a kind of half-embarrassed guilt, " it's rather a feather in my cap.
I discovered the only existing case of perdinavititis.
The man really did lose a ship.
Indeed, not to put too fine a point on it, I took his ship.
Dr. Quayle swung round for an instant so that his silk-lined overcoat rustled, and stared singularly at Turnbull.
Then he said with hurried amiability: " Why, of course you did.
Quite so, quite so," and with courteous gestures went striding up the garden path.
Under the first laburnum-tree he stopped, however, and pulling out his pencil and notebook wrote down feverishly: " Singular development in the Elenthero-maniac, Turnbull.
Sudden manifestation of Rapinavititis-the delusion that one has stolen a ship.
First case ever recorded.
Turnbull stood for an instant staggered into stillness.
Then he ran raging round the garden to find MacIan, just as a husband, even a bad husband, will run raging to find his wife if he is full of a furious query.
He found MacIan stalking moodily about the half-lit garden, after his extraordinary meeting with Beatrice.
No one who saw his slouching stride and sunken head could have known that his soul was in the seventh heaven of ecstasy.
He did not think; he did not even very definitely desire.
He merely wallowed in memories, chiefly in material memories; words said with a certain cadence or trivial turns of the neck or wrist.
Into the middle of his stationary and senseless enjoyment were thrust abruptly the projecting elbow and the projecting red beard of Turnbull.
MacIan stepped back a little, and the soul in his eyes came very slowly to its windows.
When James Turnbull had the glittering sword-point planted upon his breast he was in far less danger.
For three pulsating seconds after the interruption MacIan was in a mood to have murdered his father.
And yet his whole emotional anger fell from him when he saw Turnbull's face, in which the eyes seemed to be bursting from the head like bullets.
All the fire and fragrance even of young and honourable love faded for a moment before that stiff agony of interrogation.
I want to know what all this can possibly mean.
MacIan did not answer, and he continued with asperity: " You are still thinking about that girl, but I tell you the whole thing is incredible.
She's not the only person here.
I've met the fellow Wilkinson, whose yacht we lost.
I've met the very magistrate you were hauled up to when you broke my window.
What can it mean-meeting all these old people again?
One never meets such old friends again except in a dream.
Then after a silence he cried with a rending sincerity: " Are you really there, Evan?
Have you ever been really there?
MacIan had been listening with a living silence to every word, and now his face flamed with one of his rare revelations of life.
No, you are not dreaming-you are waking up.
or I shall say it all wrong," said MacIan, breathing hard.
An apocalypse is the opposite of a dream.
A dream is falser than the outer life.
But the end of the world is more actual than the world it ends.
I don't say this is really the end of the world, but it's something like that-it's the end of something.
All the people are crowding into one corner.
Everything is coming to a point.
Then after a silence he said: " I can't see it-and yet I will try to describe it.
Turnbull, three days ago I saw quite suddenly that our duel was not right after all.
repeated his wondering companion.
When I saw his eyes and heard his old croaking accent, I knew that it would not really have been right to kill you.
It would have been a venial sin.
I am trying to tell more of it than I know.
I would confess it to old Cumberland Vane and his eye-glass.
I would confess it even to that old ass in brown flannel who talked to us about Love.
Yes, they are right in a way.
He stopped and wiped his brow as if he were literally doing heavy labour.
When hundreds of high-minded men had fought duesl about a jostle with the elbow or the ace of spades, the whole world need not have gone wild over my one little wildness.
Plenty of other people have killed themselves between then and now.
But all England has gone into captivity in order to take us captive.
All England has turned into a lunatic asylum in order to prove us lunatics.
Compared with the general public, I might positively be called sane.
He stopped again, and went on with the same air of travailing with the truth:
The Church in its earthly action has really touched morbid things-tortures and bleeding visions and blasts of extermination.
The Church has had her madnesses, and I am one of them.
I am the massacre of St. Bartholomew.
I am the Inquisition of Spain.
I do not say that we have never gone mad, but I say that we are fit to act as keepers to our enemies.
Massacre is wicked even with a provocation, as in the Bartholomew.
But your modern Nietzsche will tell you that massacre would be glorious without a provocation.
Torture should be violently stopped, though the Church is doing it.
But your modern Tolstoy will tell you that it ought not to be violently stopped whoever is doing it.
In the long run, which is most mad-the Church or the world?
Which is madder, the Spanish priest who permitted tyranny, or the Prussian sophist who admired it?
Which is madder, the Russian priest who discourages righteous rebellion, or the Russian novelist who forbids it?
That is the final and blasting test.
The world left to itself grows wilder than any creed.
A few days ago you and I were the maddest people in England.
I believe we are the sanest.
That is the only real question-whether the Church is really madder than the world.
Let the rationalists run their own race, and let us see where _they_ end.
If the world has some healthy balance other than God, let the world find it.
Cut the world loose," he cried with a savage gesture.
Does it stand, or does it stagger?
Turnbull remained silent, and MacIan said to him, looking once more at the earth: " It staggers, Turnbull.
It cannot stand by itself; you know it cannot.
It has been the sorrow of your life.
Turnbull, this garden is not a dream, but an apocalyptic fulfilment.
This garden is the world gone mad.
Turnbull did not move his head, and he had been listening all the time; yet, somehow, the other knew that for the first time he was listening seriously.
The world takes the trouble to make a big mistake about every little mistake made by the Church.
That is why they have turned ten counties to a madhouse; that is why crowds of kindly people are poured into this filthy melting-pot.
Now is the judgement of this world.
The Prince of this World is judged, and he is judged exactly because he is judging.
There is at last one simple solution to the quarrel between the ball and the cross ----
Turnbull for the first time started.
They were both dreams from hell.
There must be some round earth to plant the cross upon.
But here is the awful difference-that the round world will not consent even to continue round.
The astronomers are always telling us that it is shaped like an orange, or like an egg, or like a German sausage.
They beat the old world about like a bladder and thump it into a thousand shapeless shapes.
Turnbull, we cannot trust the ball to be always a ball; we cannot trust reason to be reasonable.
In the end the great terrestrial globe will go quite lop-sided, and only the cross will stand upright.
There was a long silence, and then Turnbull said, hesitatingly: " Has it occurred to you that since-since those two dreams, or whatever they were ----
Turnbull seemed to frown and flinch for a moment.
The bushes broke and snapped abruptly behind them, and a very tall figure towered above Turnbull with an arrogant stoop and a projecting chin, a chin of which the shape showed queerly even in its shadow upon the path.
They looked up into the eyes of the Master, but looked only for a moment.
The eyes were full of a frozen and icy wrath, a kind of utterly heartless hatred.
His voice was for the first time devoid of irony.
There was no more sarcasm in it than there is in an iron club.
There is too much talking in this garden; we intend to close it.
You will be accommodated indoors.
said MacIan, with a long and satisfied sigh, " then I was right.
And he turned his back and walked obediently towards the building.
Turnbull seemed to canvass for a few minutes the notion of knocking the Master down, and then fell under the same almost fairy fatalism as his companion.
In some strange way it did seem that the more smoothly they yielded, the more swiftly would events sweep on to some great collision.
As they advanced towards the asylum they looked up at its rows on rows of windows, and understood the Master's material threat.
By means of that complex but concealed machinery which ran like a network of nerves over the whole fabric, there had been shot out under every window-ledge rows and rows of polished-steel cylinders, the cold miracles of modern gunnery.
They commanded the whole garden and the whole country-side, and could have blown to pieces an army corps.
This silent declaration of war had evidently had its complete effect.
As MacIan and Turnbull walked steadily but slowly towards the entrance hall of the institution, they could see that most, or at least many, of the patients had already gathered there as well as the staff of doctors and the whole regiment of keepers and assistants.
But when they entered the lamp-lit hall, and the high iron door was clashed to and locked behind them, yet a new amazement leapt into their eyes, and the stalwart Turnbull almost fell.
For he saw a sight which was indeed, as MacIan had said-either the Day of Judgement or a dream.
Within a few feet of him at one corner of the square of standing people stood the girl he had known in Jersey, Madeleine Durand.
She looked straight at him with a steady smile which lit up the scene of darkness and unreason like the light of some honest fireside.
Her square face and throat were thrown back, as her habit was, and there was something almost sleepy in the geniality of her eyes.
He saw her first, and for a few seconds saw her only; then the outer edge of his eyesight took in all the other staring faces, and he saw all the faces he had ever seen for weeks and months past.
There was the Tolstoyan in Jaeger flannel, with the yellow beard that went backward and the foolish nose and eyes that went forward, with the curiosity of a crank.
He was talking eagerly to Mr. Gordon, the corpulent Jew shopkeeper whom they had once gagged in his own shop.
There was the tipsy old Hertfordshire rustic; he was talking energetically to himself.
There was not only Mr. Vane the magistrate, but the clerk of Mr. Vane, the magistrate.
There was not only Miss Drake of the motor-car, but also Miss Drake's chauffeur.
Nothing wild or unfamiliar could have produced upon Turnbull such a nightmare impression as that ring of familiar faces.
Yet he had one intellectual shock which was greater than all the others.
He stepped impulsively forward towards Madeleine, and then wavered with a kind of wild humility.
As he did so he caught sight of another square face behind Madeleine's, a face with long grey whiskers and an austere stare.
It was old Durand, the girls'father; and when Turnbull saw him he saw the last and worst marvel of that monstrous night.
He remembered Durand; he remembered his monotonous, everlasting lucidity, his stupefyingly sensible views of everything, his colossal contentment with truisms merely because they were true.
cried Turnbull to himself, " if _he_ is in the asylum, there can't be anyone outside.
He drew nearer to Madeleine, but still doubtfully and all the more so because she still smiled at him.
MacIan had already gone across to Beatrice with an air of fright.
Then all these bewildered but partly amicable recognitions were cloven by a cruel voice which always made all human blood turn bitter.
The Master was standing in the middle of the room surveying the scene like a great artist looking at a completed picture.
The Master evidently meant to say more, but before he could say anything M. Durand had stepped right up to him and was speaking.
He was speaking exactly as a French bourgeois speaks to the manager of a restaurant.
That is, he spoke with rattling and breathless rapidity, but with no incoherence, and therefore with no emotion.
It was a steady, monotonous vivacity, which came not seemingly from passion, but merely from the reason having been sent off at a gallop.
He was saying something like this:
You refuse me the company and obedience of my daughter, which Nature herself indicates.
You refuse me the beef and mutton, without pretence that it is a fast of the Church.
You now forbid me the promenade, a thing necessary to a person of my age.
It is useless to tell me that you do all this by law.
Law rests upon the social contract.
If the citizen finds himself despoiled of such pleasures and powers as he would have had even in the savage state, the social contract is annulled.
We've got to obey our orders, and so have you.
I only ask you to admit that if such things fall below the comfort of barbarism, the social contract is annulled.
It is a pretty little point of theory.
I dare say," said Hutton.
Durand bowed quite civilly and withdrew.
I will explain it, ladies and gentlemen; I will explain everything.
To whom shall I specially address myself?
He has a scientific mind.
Turnbull seemed to choke with sudden protest.
The Master seemed only to cough out of pure politeness and proceeded: " Mr. Turnbull will agree with me," he said, " when I say that we long felt in scientific circles that great harm was done by such a legend as that of the Crucifixion.
Turnbull growled something which was presumably assent.
The Master went on smoothly: " It was in vain for us to urge that the incident was irrelevant; that there were many such fanatics, many such executions.
We were forced to take the thing thoroughly in hand, to investigate it in the spirit of scientific history, and with the assistance of Mr. Turnbull and others we were happy in being able to announce that this alleged Crucifixion never occurred at all.
MacIan lifted his head and looked at the Master steadily, but Turnbull did not look up.
Now within our own time there arose an unfortunate fuss which threatened (as Mr. Turnbull would say) to galvanize the corpse of Christianity into a fictitious life-the alleged case of a Highland eccentric who wanted to fight for the Virgin.
MacIan, quite white, made a step forward, but the speaker did not alter his easy attitude or his flow of words.
There were signs of treating this alleged Highlander and his alleged opponent as heroes.
We tried all other means of arresting this reactionary hero worship.
Working men who betted on the duel were imprisoned for gambling.
Working men who drank the health of a duellist were imprisoned for drunkenness.
But the popular excitement about the alleged duel continued, and we had to fall back on our old historical method.
We investigated, on scientific principles, the story of MacIan's challenge, and we are happy to be able to inform you that the whole story of the attempted duel is a fable.
There never was any challenge.
There never was any man named MacIan.
It is a melodramatic myth, like Calvary.
Not a soul moved save Turnbull, who lifted his head; yet there was the sense of a silent explosion.
There is, for instance, a person here of the name of Gordon, formerly the keeper of a curiosity shop.
He is a victim of the disease called Vinculomania-the impression that one has been bound or tied up.
We have also a case of Fugacity (Mr. Whimpey), who imagines that he was chased by two men.
The indignant faces of the Jew shopkeeper and the Magdalen Don started out of the crowd in their indignation, but the speaker continued:
Another wretched woman has the simple egotistic mania that she has caused the duel.
Madeleine Durand actually professes to have been the subject of the fight between MacIan and his enemy, a fight which, if it occurred at all, certainly began long before.
But it never occurred at all.
We have taken in hand every person who professed to have seen such a thing, and proved them all to be unbalanced.
That is why they are here.
The Master looked round the room, just showing his perfect teeth with the perfection of artistic cruelty, exalted for a moment in the enormous simplicity of his success, and then walked across the hall and vanished through an inner door.
His two lieutenants, Quayle and Hutton, were left standing at the head of the great army of servants and keepers.
Still looking down, Turnbull lifted the chair an inch or two from the ground.
Then he suddenly swung it above his head and sent it at the inquiring doctor with an awful crash which sent one of its wooden legs loose along the floor and crammed the doctor gasping into a corner.
MacIan gave a great shout, snatched up the loose chair-leg, and, rushing on the other doctor, felled him with a blow.
Twenty attendants rushed to capture the rebels; MacIan flung back three of them and Turnbull went over on top of one, when from behind them all came a shriek as of something quite fresh and frightful.
Two of the three passages leading out of the hall were choked with blue smoke.
Another instant and the hall was full of the fog of it, and red sparks began to swarm like scarlet bees.
cried Quayle with a scream of indecent terror.
How can it have happened?
A light had come into Turnbull's eyes.
Even as he spoke, as if by confirmation, old Mr. Durand re-entered the smoky room quite placidly, wiping the petroleum from his hands with a handkerchief.
He had set fire to the building in accordance with the strict principles of the social contract.
But MacIan had taken a stride forward and stood there shaken and terrible.
The doctors will leave this place; the keepers will leave this place.
They will leave us in charge of the machinery and the machine-guns at the windows.
But we, the lunatics, will wait to be burned alive if only we may see them go.
Even as they spoke the main doors were burst open in mere brutal panic, and all the officers and subordinates of the asylum rushed away across the garden pursued by the smoke.
But among the ticketed maniacs not a man or woman moved.
This is a successful revolution.
In the roof above their heads a panel shot back, showing a strip of star-lit sky and a huge thing made of white metal, with the shape and fins of a fish, swinging as if at anchor.
At the same moment a steel ladder slid down from the opening and struck the floor, and the cleft chin of the mysterious Master was thrust into the opening.
And they went up the ladder like automata of lead.
Long after they had clambered into the car, the creature with the cloven face continued to leer down upon the smoke-stung crowd below.
Then at last he said in a silken voice and with a smile of final satisfaction:
There is one man specially whom, somehow, I always forget.
I always leave him lying about.
Once I mislaid him on the Cross of St. Paul's.
So silly of me; and now I've forgotten him in one of those little cells where your fire is burning.
Very unfortunate-especially for him.
And nodding genially, he climbed into his flying ship.
MacIan stood motionless for two minutes, and then rushed down one of the suffocating corridors till he found the flames.
Turnbull looked once at Madeleine, and followed.
MacIan, with singed hair, smoking garments, and smarting hands and face, had already broken far enough through the first barriers of burning timber to come within cry of the cells he had once known.
It was impossible, however, to see the spot where the old man lay dead or alive; not now through darkness, but through scorching and aching light.
The site of the old half-wit's cell was now the heart of a standing forest of fire-the flames as thick and yellow as a cornfield.
Their incessant shrieking and crackling was like a mob shouting against an orator.
Yet through all that deafening density MacIan thought he heard a small and separate sound.
When he heard it he rushed forward as if to plunge into that furnace, but Turnbull arrested him by an elbow.
cried Evan, in agony; " it's the poor old beggar's voice-he's still alive, and shouting for help.
said Turnbull, and lifted one finger from his clenched hand.
repeated Turnbull, grimly.
The small shrill sounds which came through the crash of the conflagration were indeed of an odd sort, and MacIan turned a face of puzzled inquiry to his companion.
A remaining rampart fell, crushing the fire, and through the diminished din of it the voice of the little old lunatic came clearer.
In the heart of that white-hot hell he was singing like a bird.
What he was singing it was not very easy to follow, but it seemed to be something about playing in the golden hay.
cried Turnbull, bitterly, " there seem to be some advantages in really being an idiot.
Then advancing to the fringe of the fire he called out on chance to the invisible singer: " Can you come out?
said MacIan, with a shudder; " he's laughing now.
At whatever stage of being burned alive the invisible now found himself, he was now shaking out peals of silvery and hilarious laughter.
As he listened, MacIan's two eyes began to glow, as if a strange thought had come into his head.
that is not the way," cried Evan, suddenly.
The fire, though it had dropped in one or two places, was, upon the whole, higher and more unconquerable than ever.
Separate tall flames shot up and spread out above them like the fiery cloisters of some infernal cathedral, or like a grove of red tropical trees in the garden of the devil.
Higher yet in the purple hollow of the night the topmost flames leapt again and again fruitlessly at the stars, like golden dragons chained but struggling.
The towers and domes of the oppressive smoke seemed high and far enough to drown distant planets in a London fog.
But if we exhausted all frantic similes for that frantic scene, the main impression about the fire would still be its ranked upstanding rigidity and a sort of roaring stillness.
It was literally a wall of fire.
Turnbull was staring at him as he cried.
The tall and steady forest of fire must have been already a portent visible to the whole circle of land and sea.
The red flush of it lit up the long sides of white ships far out in the German Ocean, and picked out like piercing rubies the windows in the villages on the distant heights.
If any villagers or sailors were looking towards it they must have seen a strange sight as MacIan cried out for the third time.
That forest of fire wavered, and was cloven in the centre; and then the whole of one half of it leaned one way as a cornfield leans all one way under the load of the wind.
Indeed, it looked as if a great wind had sprung up and driven the great fire aslant.
Its smoke was no longer sent up to choke the stars, but was trailed and dragged across county after county like one dreadful banner of defeat.
But it was not the wind; or, if it was the wind, it was two winds blowing in opposite directions.
For while one half of the huge fire sloped one way towards the inland heights, the other half, at exactly the same angle, sloped out eastward towards the sea.
So that earth and ocean could behold, where there had been a mere fiery mass, a thing divided like a V-a cloven tongue of flame.
But if it were a prodigy for those distant, it was something beyond speech for those quite near.
As the echoes of Evan's last appeal rang and died in the universal uproar, the fiery vault over his head opened down the middle, and, reeling back in two great golden billows, hung on each side as huge and harmless as two sloping hills lie on each side of a valley.
Down the centre of this trough, or chasm, a little path ran, cleared of all but ashes, and down this little path was walking a little old man singing as if he were alone in a wood in spring.
When James Turnbull saw this he suddenly put out a hand and seemed to support himself on the strong shoulder of Madeleine Durand.
Then after a moment's hesitation he put his other hand on the shoulder of MacIan.
His blue eyes looked extraordinarily brilliant and beautiful.
In many sceptical papers and magazines afterwards he was sadly or sternly rebuked for having abandoned the certainties of materialism.
All his life up to that moment he had been most honestly certain that materialism was a fact.
But he was unlike the writers in the magazines precisely in this-that he preferred a fact even to materialism.
As the little singing figure came nearer and nearer, Evan fell on his knees, and after an instant Beatrice followed; then Madeleine fell on her knees, and after a longer instant Turnbull followed.
Then the little old man went past them singing down that corridor of flames.
They had not looked at his face.
When he had passed they looked up.
But now the fire was turned to left and right like a woman's hair parted in the middle, and now the shafts of its light could shoot up into empty heavens and strike anything, either bird or cloud.
But it struck something that was neither cloud nor bird.
Far, far away up in those huge hollows of space something was flying swiftly and shining brightly, something that shone too bright and flew too fast to be any of the fowls of the air, though the red light lit it from underneath like the breast of a bird.
Everyone knew it was a flying ship, and everyone knew whose.
As they stared upward the little speck of light seemed slightly tilted, and two black dots dropped from the edge of it.
All the eager, upturned faces watched the two dots as they grew bigger and bigger in their downward rush.
Then someone screamed, and no one looked up any more.
For the two bodies, larger every second flying, spread out and sprawling in the fire-light, were the dead bodies of the two doctors whom Professor Lucifer had carried with him-the weak and sneering Quayle, the cold and clumsy Hutton.
They went with a crash into the thick of the fire.
screamed Beatrice, hiding her head.
Evan put his arm about her, and remembered his own vision.
He has taken away no souls with him, after all.
He looked vaguely about at the fire that was already fading, and there among the ashes lay two shining things that had survived the fire, his sword and Turnbull's, fallen haphazard in the pattern of a cross.
Produced by Ben Crowder < crowderb @ blankslate. net >
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In such a place the sea had something of the monotony of a blue-green dado: for the chambers themselves were ruled throughout by a terrible tidiness not unlike the terrible tidiness of the sea.
It must not be supposed that Dr Hood's apartments excluded luxury, or even poetry.
These things were there, in their place; but one felt that they were never allowed out of their place.
Luxury was there: there stood upon a special table eight or ten boxes of the best cigars; but they were built upon a plan so that the strongest were always nearest the wall and the mildest nearest the window.
A tantalus containing three kinds of spirit, all of a liqueur excellence, stood always on this table of luxury; but the fanciful have asserted that the whisky, brandy, and rum seemed always to stand at the same level.
Poetry was there: the left-hand corner of the room was lined with as complete a set of English classics as the right hand could show of English and foreign physiologists.
But if one took a volume of Chaucer or Shelley from that rank, its absence irritated the mind like a gap in a man's front teeth.
One could not say the books were never read; probably they were, but there was a sense of their being chained to their places, like the Bibles in the old churches.
Dr Hood treated his private book-shelf as if it were a public library.
Dr Hood paced the length of his string of apartments, bounded-as the boys'geographies say-on the east by the North Sea and on the west by the serried ranks of his sociological and criminologist library.
He was clad in an artist's velvet, but with none of an artist's negligence; his hair was heavily shot with grey, but growing thick and healthy; his face was lean, but sanguine and expectant.
Everything about him and his room indicated something at once rigid and restless, like that great northern sea by which (on pure principles of hygiene) he had built his home.
Fate, being in a funny mood, pushed the door open and introduced into those long, strict, sea-flanked apartments one who was perhaps the most startling opposite of them and their master.
In answer to a curt but civil summons, the door opened inwards and there shambled into the room a shapeless little figure, which seemed to find its own hat and umbrella as unmanageable as a mass of luggage.
The umbrella was a black and prosaic bundle long past repair; the hat was a broad-curved black hat, clerical but not common in England; the man was the very embodiment of all that is homely and helpless.
The doctor regarded the new-comer with a restrained astonishment, not unlike that he would have shown if some huge but obviously harmless sea-beast had crawled into his room.
The new-comer regarded the doctor with that beaming but breathless geniality which characterizes a corpulent charwoman who has just managed to stuff herself into an omnibus.
It is a rich confusion of social self-congratulation and bodily disarray.
His hat tumbled to the carpet, his heavy umbrella slipped between his knees with a thud; he reached after the one and ducked after the other, but with an unimpaired smile on his round face spoke simultaneously as follows:
I've come about that business of the MacNabs.
I have heard, you often help people out of such troubles.
Pray excuse me if I am wrong.
By this time he had sprawlingly recovered the hat, and made an odd little bobbing bow over it, as if setting everything quite right.
I am Dr Hood, and my work is almost entirely literary and educational.
It is true that I have sometimes been consulted by the police in cases of peculiar difficulty and importance, but --
And he leaned back in his chair in radiant rationality.
The brows of Dr Hood were drawn down darkly, but the eyes under them were bright with something that might be anger or might be amusement.
Now, what can be more important than that?
The great Orion Hood's scientific triumphs had deprived him of many things-some said of his health, others of his God; but they had not wholly despoiled him of his sense of the absurd.
At the last plea of the ingenuous priest a chuckle broke out of him from inside, and he threw himself into an arm-chair in an ironical attitude of the consulting physician.
It is now, I understand, a question of whether some friend of yours called Maggie is a suitable fiancee for some friend of hers called Todhunter.
Well, Mr Brown, I am a sportsman.
I will give the MacNab family my best advice, as good as I gave the French Republic and the King of England-no, better: fourteen years better.
I have nothing else to do this afternoon.
The little clergyman called Brown thanked him with unquestionable warmth, but still with a queer kind of simplicity.
It was rather as if he were thanking a stranger in a smoking-room for some trouble in passing the matches, than as if he were (as he was) practically thanking the Curator of Kew Gardens for coming with him into a field to find a four-leaved clover.
With scarcely a semi-colon after his hearty thanks, the little man began his recital:
In the last and straggliest of those streets which runs along the sea like a sea-wall there is a very honest but rather sharp-tempered member of my flock, a widow called MacNab.
She has one daughter, and she lets lodgings, and between her and the daughter, and between her and the lodgers-well, I dare say there is a great deal to be said on both sides.
At present she has only one lodger, the young man called Todhunter; but he has given more trouble than all the rest, for he wants to marry the young woman of the house.
He is a bright, brownish little fellow, agile like a monkey, clean-shaven like an actor, and obliging like a born courtier.
He seems to have quite a pocketful of money, but nobody knows what his trade is.
Mrs MacNab, therefore (being of a pessimistic turn), is quite sure it is something dreadful, and probably connected with dynamite.
The dynamite must be of a shy and noiseless sort, for the poor fellow only shuts himself up for several hours of the day and studies something behind a locked door.
He declares his privacy is temporary and justified, and promises to explain before the wedding.
That is all that anyone knows for certain, but Mrs MacNab will tell you a great deal more than even she is certain of.
You know how the tales grow like grass on such a patch of ignorance as that.
There are tales of two voices heard talking in the room; though, when the door is opened, Todhunter is always found alone.
There are tales of a mysterious tall man in a silk hat, who once came out of the sea-mists and apparently out of the sea, stepping softly across the sandy fields and through the small back garden at twilight, till he was heard talking to the lodger at his open window.
The colloquy seemed to end in a quarrel.
Todhunter dashed down his window with violence, and the man in the high hat melted into the sea-fog again.
This story is told by the family with the fiercest mystification; but I really think Mrs MacNab prefers her own original tale: that the Other Man (or whatever it is) crawls out every night from the big box in the corner, which is kept locked all day.
You see, therefore, how this sealed door of Todhunter's is treated as the gate of all the fancies and monstrosities of the 'Thousand and One Nights '.
And yet there is the little fellow in his respectable black jacket, as punctual and innocent as a parlour clock.
A man warmly concerned with any large theories has always a relish for applying them to any triviality.
The great specialist having condescended to the priest's simplicity, condescended expansively.
He settled himself with comfort in his arm-chair and began to talk in the tone of a somewhat absent-minded lecturer:
A particular flower may not be dead in early winter, but the flowers are dying; a particular pebble may never be wetted with the tide, but the tide is coming in.
To the scientific eye all human history is a series of collective movements, destructions or migrations, like the massacre of flies in winter or the return of birds in spring.
Now the root fact in all history is Race.
Race produces religion; Race produces legal and ethical wars.
There is no stronger case than that of the wild, unworldly and perishing stock which we commonly call the Celts, of whom your friends the MacNabs are specimens.
Small, swarthy, and of this dreamy and drifting blood, they accept easily the superstitious explanation of any incidents, just as they still accept (you will excuse me for saying) that superstitious explanation of all incidents which you and your Church represent.
It is not remarkable that such people, with the sea moaning behind them and the Church (excuse me again) droning in front of them, should put fantastic features into what are probably plain events.
You, with your small parochial responsibilities, see only this particular Mrs MacNab, terrified with this particular tale of two voices and a tall man out of the sea.
But the man with the scientific imagination sees, as it were, the whole clans of MacNab scattered over the whole world, in its ultimate average as uniform as a tribe of birds.
He sees thousands of Mrs MacNabs, in thousands of houses, dropping their little drop of morbidity in the tea-cups of their friends; he sees --
Before the scientist could conclude his sentence, another and more impatient summons sounded from without; someone with swishing skirts was marshalled hurriedly down the corridor, and the door opened on a young girl, decently dressed but disordered and red-hot with haste.
She had sea-blown blonde hair, and would have been entirely beautiful if her cheek-bones had not been, in the Scotch manner, a little high in relief as well as in colour.
Her apology was almost as abrupt as a command.
Father Brown began to get to his feet in some disorder.
Two separate voices: for James speaks low, with a burr, and the other voice was high and quavery.
repeated the priest in some perplexity.
They were quarrelling-about money, I think-for I heard James say again and again, 'That's right, Mr Glass,' or 'No, Mr Glass,' and then, 'Two or three, Mr Glass.'
But we're talking too much; you must come at once, and there may be time yet.
asked Dr Hood, who had been studying the young lady with marked interest.
It was an dim, and seemed to be empty, but I swear I saw James lying huddled up in a corner, as if he were drugged or strangled.
As I have nothing else to do, I will put on my hat and stroll down town with you.
The aspect of this edge of the town was not entirely without justification for the doctor's hints about desolate moods and environments.
The scattered houses stood farther and farther apart in a broken string along the seashore; the afternoon was closing with a premature and partly lurid twilight; the sea was of an inky purple and murmuring ominously.
They passed through the narrow passage in the front of the house until they came to the lodger's door at the back, and there Dr Hood, with the trick of an old detective, put his shoulder sharply to the panel and burst in the door.
It opened on a scene of silent catastrophe.
No one seeing it, even for a flash, could doubt that the room had been the theatre of some thrilling collision between two, or perhaps more, persons.
Playing-cards lay littered across the table or fluttered about the floor as if a game had been interrupted.
Two wine glasses stood ready for wine on a side-table, but a third lay smashed in a star of crystal upon the carpet.
A few feet from it lay what looked like a long knife or short sword, straight, but with an ornamental and pictured handle, its dull blade just caught a grey glint from the dreary window behind, which showed the black trees against the leaden level of the sea.
Towards the opposite corner of the room was rolled a gentleman's silk top hat, as if it had just been knocked off his head; so much so, indeed, that one almost looked to see it still rolling.
And in the corner behind it, thrown like a sack of potatoes, but corded like a railway trunk, lay Mr James Todhunter, with a scarf across his mouth, and six or seven ropes knotted round his elbows and ankles.
His brown eyes were alive and shifted alertly.
Dr Orion Hood paused for one instant on the doormat and drank in the whole scene of voiceless violence.
Then he stepped swiftly across the carpet, picked up the tall silk hat, and gravely put it upon the head of the yet pinioned Todhunter.
It was so much too large for him that it almost slipped down on to his shoulders.
For Mr Glass is not a careless man with his clothes.
That hat is of a stylish shape and systematically brushed and burnished, though not very new.
An old dandy, I should think.
called out Miss MacNab, " aren't you going to untie the man first?
The hair of human beings falls out in very varying degrees, but almost always falls out slightly, and with the lens I should see the tiny hairs in a hat recently worn.
It has none, which leads me to guess that Mr Glass is bald.
Now when this is taken with the high-pitched and querulous voice which Miss MacNab described so vividly (patience, my dear lady, patience), when we take the hairless head together with the tone common in senile anger, I should think we may deduce some advance in years.
Nevertheless, he was probably vigorous, and he was almost certainly tall.
I might rely in some degree on the story of his previous appearance at the window, as a tall man in a silk hat, but I think I have more exact indication.
This wineglass has been smashed all over the place, but one of its splinters lies on the high bracket beside the mantelpiece.
No such fragment could have fallen there if the vessel had been smashed in the hand of a comparatively short man like Mr Todhunter.
Mr Todhunter, as has been remarked, is a quiet thrifty gentleman, essentially an abstainer.
These cards and wine-cups are no part of his normal habit; they have been produced for a particular companion.
But, as it happens, we may go farther.
Mr Todhunter may or may not possess this wine-service, but there is no appearance of his possessing any wine.
What, then, were these vessels to contain?
I would at once suggest some brandy or whisky, perhaps of a luxurious sort, from a flask in the pocket of Mr Glass.
We have thus something like a picture of the man, or at least of the type: tall, elderly, fashionable, but somewhat frayed, certainly fond of play and strong waters, perhaps rather too fond of them Mr Glass is a gentleman not unknown on the fringes of society.
Father Brown, I seriously ask you to compose your flock, for their sakes, not for mine.
Well, we have seen something of the figure and quality of Mr Glass; what are the chief facts known of Mr Todhunter?
They are substantially three: that he is economical, that he is more or less wealthy, and that he has a secret.
Now, surely it is obvious that there are the three chief marks of the kind of man who is blackmailed.
And surely it is equally obvious that the faded finery, the profligate habits, and the shrill irritation of Mr Glass are the unmistakable marks of the kind of man who blackmails him.
We have the two typical figures of a tragedy of hush money: on the one hand, the respectable man with a mystery; on the other, the West-end vulture with a scent for a mystery.
These two men have met here today and have quarrelled, using blows and a bare weapon.
asked the girl stubbornly.
Dr Hood replaced the silk hat carefully on the side table, and went across to the captive.
He studied him intently, even moving him a little and half-turning him round by the shoulders, but he only answered:
Father Brown, who had been looking dully at the carpet, lifted his round face and said: " What do you mean?
The man of science had picked up the peculiar dagger-sword from the carpet and was examining it intently as he answered:
There are four objections to this: First, why should a gentleman so dressy as our friend Glass leave his hat behind him, if he left of his own free will?
Second," he continued, moving towards the window, " this is the only exit, and it is locked on the inside.
Third, this blade here has a tiny touch of blood at the point, but there is no wound on Mr Todhunter.
Mr Glass took that wound away with him, dead or alive.
Add to all this primary probability.
It is much more likely that the blackmailed person would try to kill his incubus, rather than that the blackmailer would try to kill the goose that lays his golden egg.
There, I think, we have a pretty complete story.
inquired the priest, whose eyes had remained open with a rather vacant admiration.
I did not do it because Mr Todhunter can set himself free from them at any minute he chooses.
cried the audience on quite different notes of astonishment.
Every one of those knots he has made himself and could loosen himself; not one of them would have been made by an enemy really trying to pinion him.
The whole of this affair of the ropes is a clever fake, to make us think him the victim of the struggle instead of the wretched Glass, whose corpse may be hidden in the garden or stuffed up the chimney.
There was a rather depressed silence; the room was darkening, the sea-blighted boughs of the garden trees looked leaner and blacker than ever, yet they seemed to have come nearer to the window.
One could almost fancy they were sea-monsters like krakens or cuttlefish, writhing polypi who had crawled up from the sea to see the end of this tragedy, even as he, the villain and victim of it, the terrible man in the tall hat, had once crawled up from the sea.
For the whole air was dense with the morbidity of blackmail, which is the most morbid of human things, because it is a crime concealing a crime; a black plaster on a blacker wound.
The face of the little Catholic priest, which was commonly complacent and even comic, had suddenly become knotted with a curious frown.
It was not the blank curiosity of his first innocence.
It was rather that creative curiosity which comes when a man has the beginnings of an idea.
ejaculated Brown suddenly, " I wonder if it could possibly be that!
He scuttled across the room rather like a rabbit, and peered with quite a new impulsiveness into the partially-covered face of the captive.
Then he turned his own rather fatuous face to the company.
he cried in a certain excitement.
Both the Professor and the girl followed the direction of his glance.
And though the broad black scarf completely masked the lower half of Todhunter's visage, they did grow conscious of something struggling and intense about the upper part of it.
But I should interpret those transverse wrinkles as expressing rather such slight psychological abnormality --
cried Father Brown: " can't you see he's laughing?
repeated the doctor, with a start; " but what on earth can he be laughing at?
And indeed, I'm a little inclined to laugh at myself, now I know about it.
asked Hood, in some exasperation.
He shuffled about the room, looking at one object after another with what seemed to be a vacant stare, and then invariably bursting into an equally vacant laugh, a highly irritating process for those who had to watch it.
He laughed very much over the hat, still more uproariously over the broken glass, but the blood on the sword point sent him into mortal convulsions of amusement.
Then he turned to the fuming specialist.
You have called an uncreated being out of the void.
How much more godlike that is than if you had only ferreted out the mere facts!
Indeed, the mere facts are rather commonplace and comic by comparison.
A place may be permitted to intuition, perhaps (or poetry if you prefer the term), but only because the corresponding details cannot as yet be ascertained.
In the absence of Mr Glass --
He is so extremely absent.
I suppose," he added reflectively, " that there was never anybody so absent as Mr Glass.
The priest made a sign of assent.
Orion Hood broke into a contemptuous laugh.
If there is no Mr Glass, whose hat is this?
Father Brown shook his head with ineffable mildness.
Or, if you insist on a shade of difference, a hat that is his.
asked the criminologist with a slight sneer.
What could Todhunter get out of this one old hat?
It's just the same with the sword.
Mr Todhunter hasn't got a scratch on him, as you say; but he's got a scratch in him, if you follow me.
inquired Mrs MacNab sternly.
The conjuring explains the hat.
It is without traces of hair, not because it is worn by the prematurely bald Mr Glass, but because it has never been worn by anybody.
The juggling explains the three glasses, which Todhunter was teaching himself to throw up and catch in rotation.
But, being only at the stage of practice, he smashed one glass against the ceiling.
And the juggling also explains the sword, which it was Mr Todhunter's professional pride and duty to swallow.
But, again, being at the stage of practice, he very slightly grazed the inside of his throat with the weapon.
Hence he has a wound inside him, which I am sure (from the expression on his face) is not a serious one.
He was also practising the trick of a release from ropes, like the Davenport Brothers, and he was just about to free himself when we all burst into the room.
The cards, of course, are for card tricks, and they are scattered on the floor because he had just been practising one of those dodges of sending them flying through the air.
He merely kept his trade secret, because he had to keep his tricks secret, like any other conjurer.
There was a long silence, and Dr Hood regarded the little man who had spoken with a dark and attentive smile.
But there is just one part of Mr Glass you have not succeeded in explaining away, and that is his name.
Miss MacNab distinctly heard him so addressed by Mr Todhunter.
Mr Brown broke into a rather childish giggle.
When our juggling friend here threw up the three glasses in turn, he counted them aloud as he caught them, and also commented aloud when he failed to catch them.
What he really said was: 'One, two and three-missed a glass one, two-missed a glass.'
There was a second of stillness in the room, and then everyone with one accord burst out laughing.
As they did so the figure in the corner complacently uncoiled all the ropes and let them fall with a flourish.
THE great Muscari, most original of the young Tuscan poets, walked swiftly into his favourite restaurant, which overlooked the Mediterranean, was covered by an awning and fenced by little lemon and orange trees.
Waiters in white aprons were already laying out on white tables the insignia of an early and elegant lunch; and this seemed to increase a satisfaction that already touched the top of swagger.
Muscari had an eagle nose like Dante; his hair and neckerchief were dark and flowing; he carried a black cloak, and might almost have carried a black mask, so much did he bear with him a sort of Venetian melodrama.
He acted as if a troubadour had still a definite social office, like a bishop.
He went as near as his century permitted to walking the world literally like Don Juan, with rapier and guitar.
For he never travelled without a case of swords, with which he had fought many brilliant duels, or without a corresponding case for his mandolin, with which he had actually serenaded Miss Ethel Harrogate, the highly conventional daughter of a Yorkshire banker on a holiday.
Yet he was neither a charlatan nor a child; but a hot, logical Latin who liked a certain thing and was it.
His poetry was as straightforward as anyone else's prose.
He desired fame or wine or the beauty of women with a torrid directness inconceivable among the cloudy ideals or cloudy compromises of the north; to vaguer races his intensity smelt of danger or even crime.
Like fire or the sea, he was too simple to be trusted.
The banker and his beautiful English daughter were staying at the hotel attached to Muscari's restaurant; that was why it was his favourite restaurant.
A glance flashed around the room told him at once, however, that the English party had not descended.
The restaurant was glittering, but still comparatively empty.
Two priests were talking at a table in a corner, but Muscari (an ardent Catholic) took no more notice of them than of a couple of crows.
But from a yet farther seat, partly concealed behind a dwarf tree golden with oranges, there rose and advanced towards the poet a person whose costume was the most aggressively opposite to his own.
This figure was clad in tweeds of a piebald check, with a pink tie, a sharp collar and protuberant yellow boots.
He contrived, in the true tradition of'Arry at Margate, to look at once startling and commonplace.
But as the Cockney apparition drew nearer, Muscari was astounded to observe that the head was distinctly different from the body.
It was an Italian head: fuzzy, swarthy and very vivacious, that rose abruptly out of the standing collar like cardboard and the comic pink tie.
In fact it was a head he knew.
He recognized it, above all the dire erection of English holiday array, as the face of an old but forgotten friend name Ezza.
Muscari had known him last behind the footlights; he was but too well attuned to the excitements of that profession, and it was believed that some moral calamity had swallowed him up.
cried the poet, rising and shaking hands in a pleasant astonishment.
In the sixteenth century we Tuscans made the morning: we had the newest steel, the newest carving, the newest chemistry.
Why should we not now have the newest factories, the newest motors, the newest finance-the newest clothes?
Men who see the short cut to good living will never go by the new elaborate roads.
And whom are you conducting?
inquired the poet, with some eagerness.
asked the troubadour innocently.
Then, as if changing the subject, he said abruptly: " He has a daughter-and a son.
But granted his harmless qualities doesn't that banker strike you as a splendid instance of my argument?
Harrogate has millions in his safes, and I have-the hole in my pocket.
But you daren't say-you can't say-that he's cleverer than I, or bolder than I, or even more energetic.
He's not clever, he's got eyes like blue buttons; he's not energetic, he moves from chair to chair like a paralytic.
He's a conscientious, kindly old blockhead; but he's got money simply because he collects money, as a boy collects stamps.
You're too strong-minded for business, Ezza.
To be clever enough to get all that money, one must be stupid enough to want it.
Mr Harrogate, the great financier, did indeed enter the room, but nobody looked at him.
He was a massive elderly man with a boiled blue eye and faded grey-sandy moustaches; but for his heavy stoop he might have been a colonel.
He carried several unopened letters in his hand.
His son Frank was a really fine lad, curly-haired, sun-burnt and strenuous; but nobody looked at him either.
All eyes, as usual, were riveted, for the moment at least, upon Ethel Harrogate, whose golden Greek head and colour of the dawn seemed set purposely above that sapphire sea, like a goddess's.
The poet Muscari drew a deep breath as if he were drinking something, as indeed he was.
He was drinking the Classic; which his fathers made.
Ezza studied her with a gaze equally intense and far more baffling.
Miss Harrogate was specially radiant and ready for conversation on this occasion; and her family had fallen into the easier Continental habit, allowing the stranger Muscari and even the courier Ezza to share their table and their talk.
In Ethel Harrogate conventionality crowned itself with a perfection and splendour of its own.
Proud of her father's prosperity, fond of fashionable pleasures, a fond daughter but an arrant flirt, she was all these things with a sort of golden good-nature that made her very pride pleasing and her worldly respectability a fresh and hearty thing.
They were in an eddy of excitement about some alleged peril in the mountain path they were to attempt that week.
The danger was not from rock and avalanche, but from something yet more romantic.
Ethel had been earnestly assured that brigands, the true cut-throats of the modern legend, still haunted that ridge and held that pass of the Apennines.
Who is the King of Thieves?
Montano, the King of Thieves, was first heard of in the mountains some ten years ago, when people said brigands were extinct.
But his wild authority spread with the swiftness of a silent revolution.
Men found his fierce proclamations nailed in every mountain village; his sentinels, gun in hand, in every mountain ravine.
Six times the Italian Government tried to dislodge him, and was defeated in six pitched battles as if by Napoleon.
But the courier thought it perfectly safe.
There may have been some old jailbird called a King in the time of our grandmothers; but he belongs to history if not to fable.
Brigandage is utterly stamped out.
Our peasants are like their mountains, rich in grace and green gaiety, but with the fires beneath.
There is a point of human despair where the northern poor take to drink-and our own poor take to daggers.
Believe me, there is no more danger of being captured in Italy than of being scalped in Boston.
asked Mr Harrogate, frowning.
Muscari threw back his black mane.
The young Harrogate was left behind for a moment emptying a glass of white wine and lighting a cigarette, as the beauty retired with the banker, the courier and the poet, distributing peals of silvery satire.
At about the same instant the two priests in the corner rose; the taller, a white-haired Italian, taking his leave.
The shorter priest turned and walked towards the banker's son, and the latter was astonished to realize that though a Roman priest the man was an Englishman.
He vaguely remembered meeting him at the social crushes of some of his Catholic friends.
But the man spoke before his memories could collect themselves.
The odd thing I have to say will come far better from a stranger.
Mr Harrogate, I say one word and go: take care of your sister in her great sorrow.
Even for Frank's truly fraternal indifference the radiance and derision of his sister still seemed to sparkle and ring; he could hear her laughter still from the garden of the hotel, and he stared at his sombre adviser in puzzledom.
he asked; and then, remembering a vague fear of his own, " or can you be thinking of Muscari?
And he passed promptly from the room, leaving the other almost with his mouth open.
A day or two afterwards a coach containing the company was really crawling and staggering up the spurs of the menacing mountain range.
Between Ezza's cheery denial of the danger and Muscari's boisterous defiance of it, the financial family were firm in their original purpose; and Muscari made his mountain journey coincide with theirs.
A more surprising feature was the appearance at the coast-town station of the little priest of the restaurant; he alleged merely that business led him also to cross the mountains of the midland.
But young Harrogate could not but connect his presence with the mystical fears and warnings of yesterday.
The coach was a kind of commodious wagonette, invented by the modernist talent of the courier, who dominated the expedition with his scientific activity and breezy wit.
The theory of danger from thieves was banished from thought and speech; though so far conceded in formal act that some slight protection was employed.
The courier and the young banker carried loaded revolvers, and Muscari (with much boyish gratification) buckled on a kind of cutlass under his black cloak.
He had planted his person at a flying leap next to the lovely Englishwoman; on the other side of her sat the priest, whose name was Brown and who was fortunately a silent individual; the courier and the father and son were on the banc behind.
Muscari was in towering spirits, seriously believing in the peril, and his talk to Ethel might well have made her think him a maniac.
But there was something in the crazy and gorgeous ascent, amid crags like peaks loaded with woods like orchards, that dragged her spirit up alone with his into purple preposterous heavens with wheeling suns.
The white road climbed like a white cat; it spanned sunless chasms like a tight-rope; it was flung round far-off headlands like a lasso.
And yet, however high they went, the desert still blossomed like the rose.
The fields were burnished in sun and wind with the colour of kingfisher and parrot and humming-bird, the hues of a hundred flowering flowers.
There are no lovelier meadows and woodlands than the English, no nobler crests or chasms than those of Snowdon and Glencoe.
But Ethel Harrogate had never before seen the southern parks tilted on the splintered northern peaks; the gorge of Glencoe laden with the fruits of Kent.
There was nothing here of that chill and desolation that in Britain one associates with high and wild scenery.
It was rather like a mosaic palace, rent with earthquakes; or like a Dutch tulip garden blown to the stars with dynamite.
As they spoke they came under overwhelming cliffs that spread almost like wings above a corner of peculiar peril.
Shocked by the big shadow on the narrow ledge, the horses stirred doubtfully.
The driver leapt to the earth to hold their heads, and they became ungovernable.
One horse reared up to his full height-the titanic and terrifying height of a horse when he becomes a biped.
It was just enough to alter the equilibrium; the whole coach heeled over like a ship and crashed through the fringe of bushes over the cliff.
Muscari threw an arm round Ethel, who clung to him, and shouted aloud.
It was for such moments that he lived.
At the moment when the gorgeous mountain walls went round the poet's head like a purple windmill a thing happened which was superficially even more startling.
The elderly and lethargic banker sprang erect in the coach and leapt over the precipice before the tilted vehicle could take him there.
In the first flash it looked as wild as suicide; but in the second it was as sensible as a safe investment.
The Yorkshireman had evidently more promptitude, as well as more sagacity, than Muscari had given him credit for; for he landed in a lap of land which might have been specially padded with turf and clover to receive him.
As it happened, indeed, the whole company were equally lucky, if less dignified in their form of ejection.
Immediately under this abrupt turn of the road was a grassy and flowery hollow like a sunken meadow; a sort of green velvet pocket in the long, green, trailing garments of the hills.
Into this they were all tipped or tumbled with little damage, save that their smallest baggage and even the contents of their pockets were scattered in the grass around them.
The wrecked coach still hung above, entangled in the tough hedge, and the horses plunged painfully down the slope.
The first to sit up was the little priest, who scratched his head with a face of foolish wonder.
Frank Harrogate heard him say to himself: " Now why on earth have we fallen just here?
He blinked at the litter around him, and recovered his own very clumsy umbrella.
Beyond it lay the broad sombrero fallen from the head of Muscari, and beside it a sealed business letter which, after a glance at the address, he returned to the elder Harrogate.
On the other side of him the grass partly hid Miss Ethel's sunshade, and just beyond it lay a curious little glass bottle hardly two inches long.
The priest picked it up; in a quick, unobtrusive manner he uncorked and sniffed it, and his heavy face turned the colour of clay.
he muttered; " it can't be hers!
Has her sorrow come on her already?
He slipped it into his own waistcoat pocket.
He gazed painfully at the girl, at that moment being raised out of the flowers by Muscari, who was saying: " We have fallen into heaven; it is a sign.
Mortals climb up and they fall down; but it is only gods and goddesses who can fall upwards.
And indeed she rose out of the sea of colours so beautiful and happy a vision that the priest felt his suspicion shaken and shifted.
Muscari set the lady lightly on her feet, made her an absurdly theatrical bow, and then, drawing his cutlass, hacked hard at the taut reins of the horses, so that they scrambled to their feet and stood in the grass trembling.
When he had done so, a most remarkable thing occurred.
A very quiet man, very poorly dressed and extremely sunburnt, came out of the bushes and took hold of the horses'heads.
He had a queer-shaped knife, very broad and crooked, buckled on his belt; there was nothing else remarkable about him, except his sudden and silent appearance.
The poet asked him who he was, and he did not answer.
Looking around him at the confused and startled group in the hollow, Muscari then perceived that another tanned and tattered man, with a short gun under his arm, was looking at them from the ledge just below, leaning his elbows on the edge of the turf.
Then he looked up at the road from which they had fallen and saw, looking down on them, the muzzles of four other carbines and four other brown faces with bright but quite motionless eyes.
cried Muscari, with a kind of monstrous gaiety.
Ezza, if you will oblige me by shooting the coachman first, we can cut our way out yet.
There are only six of them.
Then put the lady in the middle, and we will break the line up there-with a rush.
And, wading in wild grass and flowers, he advanced fearlessly on the four carbines; but finding that no one followed except young Harrogate, he turned, brandishing his cutlass to wave the others on.
He beheld the courier still standing slightly astride in the centre of the grassy ring, his hands in his pockets; and his lean, ironical Italian face seemed to grow longer and longer in the evening light.
But I have succeeded more than you and fill a bigger place in history.
I have been acting epics while you have been writing them.
thundered Muscari from above.
What do you call yourself?
And even as he spoke five more silent men with weapons ready came out of the bushes, and looked towards him for their orders.
One of them held a large paper in his hand.
It is my principal stronghold on these hills; for (as you have doubtless noticed) the eyrie is invisible both from the road above and from the valley below.
It is something better than impregnable; it is unnoticeable.
Here I mostly live, and here I shall certainly die, if the gendarmes ever track me here.
I am not the kind of criminal that 'reserves his defence,' but the better kind that reserves his last bullet.
All were staring at him thunderstruck and still, except Father Brown, who heaved a huge sigh as of relief and fingered the little phial in his pocket.
he muttered; " that's much more probable.
The poison belongs to this robber-chief, of course.
He carries it so that he may never be captured, like Cato.
The King of Thieves was, however, continuing his address with the same kind of dangerous politeness.
I need not expound the quaint old ritual of ransom, which it is incumbent upon me to keep up; and even this only applies to a part of the company.
The Reverend Father Brown and the celebrated Signor Muscari I shall release tomorrow at dawn and escort to my outposts.
Poets and priests, if you will pardon my simplicity of speech, never have any money.
And so (since it is impossible to get anything out of them), let us, seize the opportunity to show our admiration for classic literature and our reverence for Holy Church.
He paused with an unpleasing smile; and Father Brown blinked repeatedly at him, and seemed suddenly to be listening with great attention.
I will not weary you with the verbalism, since you will be able to check it; the substance of my proclamation is this: I announce first that I have captured the English millionaire, the colossus of finance, Mr Samuel Harrogate.
I next announce that I have found on his person notes and bonds for two thousand pounds, which he has given up to me.
Now since it would be really immoral to announce such a thing to a credulous public if it had not occurred, I suggest it should occur without further delay.
I suggest that Mr Harrogate senior should now give me the two thousand pounds in his pocket.
The banker looked at him under lowering brows, red-faced and sulky, but seemingly cowed.
That leap from the failing carriage seemed to have used up his last virility.
He had held back in a hang-dog style when his son and Muscari had made a bold movement to break out of the brigand trap.
And now his red and trembling hand went reluctantly to his breast-pocket, and passed a bundle of papers and envelopes to the brigand.
cried that outlaw gaily; " so far we are all cosy.
I resume the points of my proclamation, so soon to be published to all Italy.
The third item is that of ransom.
I am asking from the friends of the Harrogate family a ransom of three thousand pounds, which I am sure is almost insulting to that family in its moderate estimate of their importance.
Who would not pay triple this sum for another day's association with such a domestic circle?
All the time that he had been speaking, the dubious-looking men with carbines and dirty slouch hats had been gathering silently in such preponderating numbers that even Muscari was compelled to recognize his sally with the sword as hopeless.
He glanced around him; but the girl had already gone over to soothe and comfort her father, for her natural affection for his person was as strong or stronger than her somewhat snobbish pride in his success.
Muscari, with the illogicality of a lover, admired this filial devotion, and yet was irritated by it.
He slapped his sword back in the scabbard and went and flung himself somewhat sulkily on one of the green banks.
The priest sat down within a yard or two, and Muscari turned his aquiline nose on him in an instantaneous irritation.
Are there, I wonder, any brigands left in the mountains?
He seems to me much more inexplicable as a brigand even than he was as a courier.
I should have thought the brigand was plain enough.
First of all I must tell you I was lunching in that restaurant at the seaside.
As four of you left the room, you and Miss Harrogate went ahead, talking and laughing; the banker and the courier came behind, speaking sparely and rather low.
But I could not help hearing Ezza say these words --'Well, let her have a little fun; you know the blow may smash her any minute.'
Mr Harrogate answered nothing; so the words must have had some meaning.
On the impulse of the moment I warned her brother that she might be in peril; I said nothing of its nature, for I did not know.
But if it meant this capture in the hills, the thing is nonsense.
Why should the brigand-courier warn his patron, even by a hint, when it was his whole purpose to lure him into the mountain-mousetrap?
It could not have meant that.
But if not, what is this disaster, known both to courier and banker, which hangs over Miss Harrogate's head?
ejaculated the poet, sitting up with some ferocity.
Why did he put so prominently in his demand for ransom the fact that he had taken two thousand pounds from his victim on the spot?
It had no faintest tendency to evoke the ransom.
Quite the other way, in fact.
Harrogate's friends would be far likelier to fear for his fate if they thought the thieves were poor and desperate.
Yet the spoliation on the spot was emphasized and even put first in the demand.
Why should Ezza Montano want so specially to tell all Europe that he had picked the pocket before he levied the blackmail?
What may be the third objection to the King of the Thieves?
Why does our brigand-courier call this his chief fortress and the Paradise of Thieves?
It is certainly a soft spot to fall on and a sweet spot to look at.
It is also quite true, as he says, that it is invisible from valley and peak, and is therefore a hiding-place.
But it is not a fortress.
It never could be a fortress.
I think it would be the worst fortress in the world.
For it is actually commanded from above by the common high-road across the mountains-the very place where the police would most probably pass.
Why, five shabby short guns held us helpless here about half an hour ago.
The quarter of a company of any kind of soldiers could have blown us over the precipice.
Whatever is the meaning of this odd little nook of grass and flowers, it is not an entrenched position.
It is something else; it has some other strange sort of importance; some value that I do not understand.
It is more like an accidental theatre or a natural green-room; it is like the scene for some romantic comedy; it is like...
As the little priest's words lengthened and lost themselves in a dull and dreamy sincerity, Muscari, whose animal senses were alert and impatient, heard a new noise in the mountains.
Even for him the sound was as yet very small and faint; but he could have sworn the evening breeze bore with it something like the pulsation of horses'hoofs and a distant hallooing.
At the same moment, and long before the vibration had touched the less-experienced English ears, Montano the brigand ran up the bank above them and stood in the broken hedge, steadying himself against a tree and peering down the road.
He was a strange figure as he stood there, for he had assumed a flapped fantastic hat and swinging baldric and cutlass in his capacity of bandit king, but the bright prosaic tweed of the courier showed through in patches all over him.
The next moment he turned his olive, sneering face and made a movement with his hand.
The brigands scattered at the signal, not in confusion, but in what was evidently a kind of guerrilla discipline.
Instead of occupying the road along the ridge, they sprinkled themselves along the side of it behind the trees and the hedge, as if watching unseen for an enemy.
The noise beyond grew stronger, beginning to shake the mountain road, and a voice could be clearly heard calling out orders.
The brigands swayed and huddled, cursing and whispering, and the evening air was full of little metallic noises as they cocked their pistols, or loosened their knives, or trailed their scabbards over the stones.
Then the noises from both quarters seemed to meet on the road above; branches broke, horses neighed, men cried out.
cried Muscari, springing to his feet and waving his hat; " the gendarmes are on them!
Now for freedom and a blow for it!
Now to be rebels against robbers!
Come, don't let us leave everything to the police; that is so dreadfully modern.
Fall on the rear of these ruffians.
The gendarmes are rescuing us; come, friends, let us rescue the gendarmes!
And throwing his hat over the trees, he drew his cutlass once more and began to escalade the slope up to the road.
Frank Harrogate jumped up and ran across to help him, revolver in hand, but was astounded to hear himself imperatively recalled by the raucous voice of his father, who seemed to be in great agitation.
You wouldn't have it said that the English hung back.
We must submit to our lot.
Father Brown looked at the banker; then he put his hand instinctively as if on his heart, but really on the little bottle of poison; and a great light came into his face like the light of the revelation of death.
Muscari meanwhile, without waiting for support, had crested the bank up to the road, and struck the brigand king heavily on the shoulder, causing him to stagger and swing round.
Montano also had his cutlass unsheathed, and Muscari, without further speech, sent a slash at his head which he was compelled to catch and parry.
But even as the two short blades crossed and clashed the King of Thieves deliberately dropped his point and laughed.
he said in spirited Italian slang; " this damned farce will soon be over.
panted the fire-eating poet.
I am no more a genuine brigand than I am a genuine courier.
I am only a bundle of masks, and you can't fight a duel with that.
And he laughed with boyish pleasure and fell into his old straddling attitude, with his back to the skirmish up the road.
It was more like a town crowd preventing the passage of the police than anything the poet had ever pictured as the last stand of doomed and outlawed men of blood.
Just as he was rolling his eyes in bewilderment he felt a touch on his elbow, and found the odd little priest standing there like a small Noah with a large hat, and requesting the favour of a word or two.
I may tell you without offence of a way in which you will do more good than by helping the gendarmes, who are bound to break through in any case.
You will permit me the impertinent intimacy, but do you care about that girl?
Care enough to marry her and make her a good husband, I mean?
asked the astonished man of letters.
Almost as he spoke the hedges were broken all along the ridge by a rush of the escaping brigands.
They dived into bushes and thick grass like defeated men pursued; and the great cocked hats of the mounted gendarmerie were seen passing along above the broken hedge.
Another order was given; there was a noise of dismounting, and a tall officer with cocked hat, a grey imperial, and a paper in his hand appeared in the gap that was the gate of the Paradise of Thieves.
There was a momentary silence, broken in an extraordinary way by the banker, who cried out in a hoarse and strangled voice: " Robbed!
The policeman with the grey imperial was striding across the green hollow.
Encountering the King of the Thieves in his path, he clapped him on the shoulder with something between a caress and a buffet and gave him a push that sent him staggering away.
Again to Muscari's artistic eye it seemed scarcely like the capture of a great outlaw at bay.
Passing on, the policeman halted before the Harrogate group and said: " Samuel Harrogate, I arrest you in the name of the law for embezzlement of the funds of the Hull and Huddersfield Bank.
The great banker nodded with an odd air of business assent, seemed to reflect a moment, and before they could interpose took a half turn and a step that brought him to the edge of the outer mountain wall.
Then, flinging up his hands, he leapt exactly as he leapt out of the coach.
But this time he did not fall into a little meadow just beneath; he fell a thousand feet below, to become a wreck of bones in the valley.
The anger of the Italian policeman, which he expressed volubly to Father Brown, was largely mixed with admiration.
This last trick of his I believe to be absolutely unprecedented.
He fled with the company's money to Italy, and actually got himself captured by sham brigands in his own pay, so as to explain both the disappearance of the money and the disappearance of himself.
That demand for ransom was really taken seriously by most of the police.
But for years he's been doing things as good as that, quite as good as that.
He will be a serious loss to his family.
Muscari was leading away the unhappy daughter, who held hard to him, as she did for many a year after.
But even in that tragic wreck he could not help having a smile and a hand of half-mocking friendship for the indefensible Ezza Montano.
he asked him over his shoulder.
I really do believe in those things if I believe in anything.
Change, bustle and new things every morning.
I am going to Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Hull, Huddersfield, Glasgow, Chicago-in short, to enlightened, energetic, civilized society!
M. MAURICE BRUN and M. Armand Armagnac were crossing the sunlit Champs Elysee with a kind of vivacious respectability.
They were both short, brisk and bold.
They both had black beards that did not seem to belong to their faces, after the strange French fashion which makes real hair look like artificial.
M. Brun had a dark wedge of beard apparently affixed under his lower lip.
M. Armagnac, by way of a change, had two beards; one sticking out from each corner of his emphatic chin.
They were both atheists, with a depressing fixity of outlook but great mobility of exposition.
They were both pupils of the great Dr Hirsch, scientist, publicist and moralist.
M. Brun had become prominent by his proposal that the common expression " Adieu " should be obliterated from all the French classics, and a slight fine imposed for its use in private life.
M. Armagnac specialized rather in a resistance to militarism, and wished the chorus of the Marseillaise altered from " Aux armes, citoyens " to " Aux greves, citoyens ".
But his antimilitarism was of a peculiar and Gallic sort.
An eminent and very wealthy English Quaker, who had come to see him to arrange for the disarmament of the whole planet, was rather distressed by Armagnac's proposal that (by way of beginning) the soldiers should shoot their officers.
And indeed it was in this regard that the two men differed most from their leader and father in philosophy.
Dr Hirsch, though born in France and covered with the most triumphant favours of French education, was temperamentally of another type-mild, dreamy, humane; and, despite his sceptical system, not devoid of transcendentalism.
He was, in short, more like a German than a Frenchman; and much as they admired him, something in the subconsciousness of these Gauls was irritated at his pleading for peace in so peaceful a manner.
To their party throughout Europe, however, Paul Hirsch was a saint of science.
His large and daring cosmic theories advertised his austere life and innocent, if somewhat frigid, morality; he held something of the position of Darwin doubled with the position of Tolstoy.
But he was neither an anarchist nor an antipatriot; his views on disarmament were moderate and evolutionary-the Republican Government put considerable confidence in him as to various chemical improvements.
He had lately even discovered a noiseless explosive, the secret of which the Government was carefully guarding.
His house stood in a handsome street near the Elysee-a street which in that strong summer seemed almost as full of foliage as the park itself; a row of chestnuts shattered the sunshine, interrupted only in one place where a large cafe ran out into the street.
Almost opposite to this were the white and green blinds of the great scientist's house, an iron balcony, also painted green, running along in front of the first-floor windows.
Beneath this was the entrance into a kind of court, gay with shrubs and tiles, into which the two Frenchmen passed in animated talk.
The door was opened to them by the doctor's old servant, Simon, who might very well have passed for a doctor himself, having a strict suit of black, spectacles, grey hair, and a confidential manner.
In fact, he was a far more presentable man of science than his master, Dr Hirsch, who was a forked radish of a fellow, with just enough bulb of a head to make his body insignificant.
With all the gravity of a great physician handling a prescription, Simon handed a letter to M. Armagnac.
That gentleman ripped it up with a racial impatience, and rapidly read the following:
I cannot come down to speak to you.
There is a man in this house whom I refuse to meet.
He is a Chauvinist officer, Dubosc.
He is sitting on the stairs.
He has been kicking the furniture about in all the other rooms; I have locked myself in my study, opposite that cafe.
If you love me, go over to the cafe and wait at one of the tables outside.
I will try to send him over to you.
I want you to answer him and deal with him.
I cannot meet him myself.
There is going to be another Dreyfus case.
M. Armagnac looked at M. Brun.
M. Brun borrowed the letter, read it, and looked at M. Armagnac.
Then both betook themselves briskly to one of the little tables under the chestnuts opposite, where they procured two tall glasses of horrible green absinthe, which they could drink apparently in any weather and at any time.
Otherwise the cafe seemed empty, except for one soldier drinking coffee at one table, and at another a large man drinking a small syrup and a priest drinking nothing.
Maurice Brun cleared his throat and said: " Of course we must help the master in every way, but --
There was an abrupt silence, and Armagnac said: " He may have excellent reasons for not meeting the man himself, but --
Before either could complete a sentence, it was evident that the invader had been expelled from the house opposite.
The shrubs under the archway swayed and burst apart, as that unwelcome guest was shot out of them like a cannon-ball.
He was a sturdy figure in a small and tilted Tyrolean felt hat, a figure that had indeed something generally Tyrolean about it.
The man's shoulders were big and broad, but his legs were neat and active in knee-breeches and knitted stockings.
His face was brown like a nut; he had very bright and restless brown eyes; his dark hair was brushed back stiffly in front and cropped close behind, outlining a square and powerful skull; and he had a huge black moustache like the horns of a bison.
Such a substantial head is generally based on a bull neck; but this was hidden by a big coloured scarf, swathed round up the man's ears and falling in front inside his jacket like a sort of fancy waistcoat.
It was a scarf of strong dead colours, dark red and old gold and purple, probably of Oriental fabrication.
Altogether the man had something a shade barbaric about him; more like a Hungarian squire than an ordinary French officer.
His French, however, was obviously that of a native; and his French patriotism was so impulsive as to be slightly absurd.
His first act when he burst out of the archway was to call in a clarion voice down the street: " Are there any Frenchmen here?
as if he were calling for Christians in Mecca.
Armagnac and Brun instantly stood up; but they were too late.
Men were already running from the street corners; there was a small but ever-clustering crowd.
he volleyed; " I cannot speak!
God help me, that is why I am speaking!
The fellows in their filthy parliaments who learn to speak also learn to be silent-silent as that spy cowering in the house opposite!
Silent as he is when I beat on his bedroom door!
Silent as he is now, though he hears my voice across this street and shakes where he sits!
Oh, they can be silent eloquently-the politicians!
But the time has come when we that cannot speak must speak.
You are betrayed to the Prussians.
I am Jules Dubosc, Colonel of Artillery, Belfort.
We caught a German spy in the Vosges yesterday, and a paper was found on him-a paper I hold in my hand.
Oh, they tried to hush it up; but I took it direct to the man who wrote it-the man in that house!
It is signed with his initials.
It is a direction for finding the secret of this new Noiseless Powder.
Hirsch invented it; Hirsch wrote this note about it.
This note is in German, and was found in a German's pocket.
He rattled short sentences like a quick-firing gun, but he was plainly the sort of man who is either mad or right.
The mass of the crowd was Nationalist, and already in threatening uproar; and a minority of equally angry Intellectuals, led by Armagnac and Brun, only made the majority more militant.
roared Dubosc above the roaring crowd.
If he had any explanation it could have been given in complete confidence.
He refers me to two strangers in a cafe as to two flunkeys.
He has thrown me out of the house, but I am going back into it, with the people of Paris behind me!
A shout seemed to shake the very facade of mansions and two stones flew, one breaking a window above the balcony.
The indignant Colonel plunged once more under the archway and was heard crying and thundering inside.
Every instant the human sea grew wider and wider; it surged up against the rails and steps of the traitor's house; it was already certain that the place would be burst into like the Bastille, when the broken french window opened and Dr Hirsch came out on the balcony.
For an instant the fury half turned to laughter; for he was an absurd figure in such a scene.
His long bare neck and sloping shoulders were the shape of a champagne bottle, but that was the only festive thing about him.
His coat hung on him as on a peg; he wore his carrot-coloured hair long and weedy; his cheeks and chin were fully fringed with one of those irritating beards that begin far from the mouth.
He was very pale, and he wore blue spectacles.
Livid as he was, he spoke with a sort of prim decision, so that the mob fell silent in the middle of his third sentence.
The first is to my foes, the second to my friends.
To my foes I say: It is true I will not meet M. Dubosc, though he is storming outside this very room.
It is true I have asked two other men to confront him for me.
Because I will not and must not see him-because it would be against all rules of dignity and honour to see him.
Before I am triumphantly cleared before a court, there is another arbitration this gentleman owes me as a gentleman, and in referring him to my seconds I am strictly --
Armagnac and Brun were waving their hats wildly, and even the Doctor's enemies roared applause at this unexpected defiance.
Once more a few sentences were inaudible, but they could hear him say: " To my friends-I myself should always prefer weapons purely intellectual, and to these an evolved humanity will certainly confine itself.
But our own most precious truth is the fundamental force of matter and heredity.
My books are successful; my theories are unrefuted; but I suffer in politics from a prejudice almost physical in the French.
I cannot speak like Clemenceau and Deroulede, for their words are like echoes of their pistols.
The French ask for a duellist as the English ask for a sportsman.
Well, I give my proofs: I will pay this barbaric bribe, and then go back to reason for the rest of my life.
Two men were instantly found in the crowd itself to offer their services to Colonel Dubosc, who came out presently, satisfied.
One was the common soldier with the coffee, who said simply: " I will act for you, sir.
I am the Duc de Valognes.
The other was the big man, whom his friend the priest sought at first to dissuade; and then walked away alone.
In the early evening a light dinner was spread at the back of the Cafe Charlemagne.
Though unroofed by any glass or gilt plaster, the guests were nearly all under a delicate and irregular roof of leaves; for the ornamental trees stood so thick around and among the tables as to give something of the dimness and the dazzle of a small orchard.
At one of the central tables a very stumpy little priest sat in complete solitude, and applied himself to a pile of whitebait with the gravest sort of enjoyment.
His daily living being very plain, he had a peculiar taste for sudden and isolated luxuries; he was an abstemious epicure.
He did not lift his eyes from his plate, round which red pepper, lemons, brown bread and butter, etc., were rigidly ranked, until a tall shadow fell across the table, and his friend Flambeau sat down opposite.
The Duke and I thought it as well to investigate the charge, and I must say I'm glad we did.
But it wasn't written by Hirsch.
If he's a French patriot he didn't write it, because it gives information to Germany.
And if he's a German spy he didn't write it, well-because it doesn't give information to Germany.
By favour of Hirsch and the authorities, the Duke and I have actually been allowed to inspect the secret drawer at the War Office where the Hirsch formula is kept.
We are the only people who have ever known it, except the inventor himself and the Minister for War; but the Minister permitted it to save Hirsch from fighting.
After that we really can't support Dubosc if his revelation is a mare's nest.
It says the paper is in the cupboard on the right of the Secretary's desk.
As a fact the cupboard with the secret drawer is some way to the left of the desk.
It says the grey envelope contains a long document written in red ink.
It isn't written in red ink, but in ordinary black ink.
It's manifestly absurd to say that Hirsch can have made a mistake about a paper that nobody knew of but himself; or can have tried to help a foreign thief by telling him to fumble in the wrong drawer.
I think we must chuck it up and apologize to old Carrots.
Father Brown seemed to cogitate; he lifted a little whitebait on his fork.
Father Brown put down the small silver fish and the fork and stared across at his companion.
he asked, in an altered voice.
repeated Flambeau, eating heartily.
Hang it all, it might as well have been grey.
But if it was white, the whole business is black.
The Doctor has been dabbling in some of the old brimstone after all.
And innocent or guilty, Dr Hirsch knew all about the facts.
You have to know an awful lot to be wrong on every subject-like the devil.
You would say if you found no such house that it was all made up.
I say if you found a house where the door was blue and the blind green, where there was a back garden and no front garden, where cats were common and dogs instantly shot, where tea was drunk in quarts and coffee forbidden-then you would know you had found the house.
The man must have known that particular house to be so accurately inaccurate.
demanded the diner opposite.
As long as it was only the left drawer instead of the right, and red ink instead of black, I thought it must be the chance blunders of a forger, as you say.
But three is a mystical number; it finishes things.
That the direction about the drawer, the colour of ink, the colour of envelope, should none of them be right by accident, that can't be a coincidence.
asked Flambeau, resuming his dinner.
I can always grasp moral evidence easier than the other sorts.
I go by a man's eyes and voice, don't you know, and whether his family seems happy, and by what subjects he chooses-and avoids.
Well, I was puzzled in the Dreyfus case.
Not by the horrible things imputed both ways; I know (though it's not modern to say so) that human nature in the highest places is still capable of being Cenci or Borgia.
No --, what puzzled me was the sincerity of both parties.
I don't mean the political parties; the rank and file are always roughly honest, and often duped.
I mean the persons of the play.
I mean the conspirators, if they were conspirators.
I mean the traitor, if he was a traitor.
I mean the men who must have known the truth.
Now Dreyfus went on like a man who knew he was a wronged man.
And yet the French statesmen and soldiers went on as if they knew he wasn't a wronged man but simply a wrong'un.
I don't mean they behaved well; I mean they behaved as if they were sure.
I can't describe these things; I know what I mean.
Suppose he even thought he was saving his country by misleading the foreigner.
Suppose this brought him into spy circles, and little loans were made to him, and little ties tied on to him.
Suppose he kept up his contradictory position in a confused way by never telling the foreign spies the truth, but letting it more and more be guessed.
The better part of him (what was left of it) would still say: 'I have not helped the enemy; I said it was the left drawer.'
The meaner part of him would already be saying: 'But they may have the sense to see that means the right.'
I think it is psychologically possible-in an enlightened age, you know.
But it won't wash historically, because Dreyfus's document (if it was his document) was literally correct.
Silence had sunk around them with the emptying of the tables; it was already late, though the sunlight still clung to everything, as if accidentally entangled in the trees.
In the stillness Flambeau shifted his seat sharply-making an isolated and echoing noise-and threw his elbow over the angle of it.
I mean those things that make a woman refuse to dance with a man or a man to touch an investment.
They've been taught that it's all a matter of degree.
Old Dubosc may be a bit mad, but he's a sort of patriot after all.
Father Brown continued to consume whitebait.
Something in the stolid way he did so caused Flambeau's fierce black eyes to ramble over his companion afresh.
Everything, I mean, that has happened today.
I doubt the whole story, though it has been acted before my face.
I doubt every sight that my eyes have seen since morning.
There is something in this business quite different from the ordinary police mystery where one man is more or less lying and the other man more or less telling the truth.
I've told you the only theory I can think of that could satisfy anybody.
But that's the queer thing about the whole business.
The lie is like a schoolboy's.
There are only three versions, Dubosc's and Hirsch's and that fancy of mine.
Either that note was written by a French officer to ruin a French official; or it was written by the French official to help German officers; or it was written by the French official to mislead German officers.
You'd expect a secret paper passing between such people, officials or officers, to look quite different from that.
You'd expect, probably a cipher, certainly abbreviations; most certainly scientific and strictly professional terms.
But this thing's elaborately simple, like a penny dreadful: 'In the purple grotto you will find the golden casket.'
It looks as if... as if it were meant to be seen through at once.
Almost before they could take it in a short figure in French uniform had walked up to their table like the wind, and sat down with a sort of thump.
He is packing up to leave the country, and he asks us to make his excuses sur le terrain.
cried Flambeau, with an incredulity quite frightful-" apologize?
And you and I have to do it while he is leaving the country.
he cried, in a kind of rational rage; " nobody could be afraid of Hirsch!
snapped Valognes --" some plot of the Jews and Freemasons.
It's meant to work up glory for Hirsch...
The face of Father Brown was commonplace, but curiously contented; it could shine with ignorance as well as with knowledge.
But there was always one flash when the foolish mask fell, and the wise mask fitted itself in its place; and Flambeau, who knew his friend, knew that his friend had suddenly understood.
Brown said nothing, but finished his plate of fish.
asked Flambeau, irritably.
He's packing up, I tell you.
asked Flambeau, frowning at the table.
For one of the shortest, in fact.
But we may still be in time to catch him if we go there in a motor-cab.
Nothing more could be got out of him until the cab swept round the corner by the Hotel Saint Louis, where they got out, and he led the party up a side lane already in deep shadow with the growing dusk.
Once, when the Duke impatiently asked whether Hirsch was guilty of treason or not, he answered rather absently: " No; only of ambition-like Caesar.
Then he somewhat inconsequently added: " He lives a very lonely life; he has had to do everything for himself.
The other two started and shrank farther back into the shadow of the wall, for the sturdy figure of their runaway principal could indeed be seen shuffling along in the twilight in front, a bag in each hand.
He looked much the same as when they first saw him, except that he had changed his picturesque mountaineering knickers for a conventional pair of trousers.
It was clear he was already escaping from the hotel.
The lane down which they followed him was one of those that seem to be at the back of things, and look like the wrong side of the stage scenery.
A colourless, continuous wall ran down one flank of it, interrupted at intervals by dull-hued and dirt-stained doors, all shut fast and featureless save for the chalk scribbles of some passing gamin.
On the other side of the lane ran the high gilt railings of a gloomy park.
Flambeau was looking round him in rather a weird way.
called out the Duke sharply; " that fellow's disappeared.
Vanished, like a blasted fairy!
Flambeau strode up to the door thus shut almost in his face, and stood in front of it for a moment, biting his black moustache in a fury of curiosity.
Then he threw up his long arms and swung himself aloft like a monkey and stood on the top of the wall, his enormous figure dark against the purple sky, like the dark tree-tops.
The Duke looked at the priest.
Valognes's eyes brightened, but his voice sank.
A kind of cry came from Flambeau on the wall above.
Why, it's the back of the street where old Hirsch lives.
I thought I could recognize the back of a house as well as the back of a man.
cried the Duke, smiting his hip.
And with sudden Gallic vivacity he hopped up on the wall beside Flambeau and sat there positively kicking his legs with excitement.
The priest alone remained below, leaning against the wall, with his back to the whole theatre of events, and looking wistfully across to the park palings and the twinkling, twilit trees.
But close as Flambeau was to the house, he heard the words of his colleagues by the wall, and repeated them in a low voice.
Have you read a queer psychological story by Henry James, of two persons who so perpetually missed meeting each other by accident that they began to feel quite frightened of each other, and to think it was fate?
This is something of the kind, but more curious.
cried the Duc de Valognes, impatiently; " why on earth shouldn't they meet like other people?
They cancel out, so to speak.
He continued to gaze at the darkening trees opposite, but Valognes turned his head sharply at a suppressed exclamation from Flambeau.
That investigator, peering into the lighted room, had just seen the Colonel, after a pace or two, proceed to take his coat off.
Flambeau's first thought was that this really looked like a fight; but he soon dropped the thought for another.
The solidity and squareness of Dubosc's chest and shoulders was all a powerful piece of padding and came off with his coat.
In his shirt and trousers he was a comparatively slim gentleman, who walked across the bedroom to the bathroom with no more pugnacious purpose than that of washing himself.
He bent over a basin, dried his dripping hands and face on a towel, and turned again so that the strong light fell on his face.
His brown complexion had gone, his big black moustache had gone; he-was clean-shaven and very pate.
Nothing remained of the Colonel but his bright, hawk-like, brown eyes.
Under the wall Father Brown was going on in heavy meditation, as if to himself.
These opposites won't do.
If it's white instead of black, and solid instead of liquid, and so on all along the line-then there's something wrong, Monsieur, there's something wrong.
One of these men is fair and the other dark, one stout and the other slim, one strong and the other weak.
One has a moustache and no beard, so you can't see his mouth; the other has a beard and no moustache, so you can't see his chin.
One has hair cropped to his skull, but a scarf to hide his neck; the other has low shirt-collars, but long hair to bide his skull.
It's all too neat and correct, Monsieur, and there's something wrong.
Things made so opposite are things that cannot quarrel.
Wherever the one sticks out the other sinks in.
Like a face and a mask, like a lock and a key...
Flambeau was peering into the house with a visage as white as a sheet.
Seen thus in the glass the white face looked like the face of Judas laughing horribly and surrounded by capering flames of hell.
For a spasm Flambeau saw the fierce, red-brown eyes dancing, then they were covered with a pair of blue spectacles.
Slipping on a loose black coat, the figure vanished towards the front of the house.
A few moments later a roar of popular applause from the street beyond announced that Dr Hirsch had once more appeared upon the balcony.
TWO men appeared simultaneously at the two ends of a sort of passage running along the side of the Apollo Theatre in the Adelphi.
The evening daylight in the streets was large and luminous, opalescent and empty.
The passage was comparatively long and dark, so each man could see the other as a mere black silhouette at the other end.
Nevertheless, each man knew the other, even in that inky outline; for they were both men of striking appearance and they hated each other.
The covered passage opened at one end on one of the steep streets of the Adelphi, and at the other on a terrace overlooking the sunset-coloured river.
One side of the passage was a blank wall, for the building it supported was an old unsuccessful theatre restaurant, now shut up.
The other side of the passage contained two doors, one at each end.
Neither was what was commonly called the stage door; they were a sort of special and private stage doors used by very special performers, and in this case by the star actor and actress in the Shakespearean performance of the day.
Persons of that eminence often like to have such private exits and entrances, for meeting friends or avoiding them.
The two men in question were certainly two such friends, men who evidently knew the doors and counted on their opening, for each approached the door at the upper end with equal coolness and confidence.
Not, however, with equal speed; but the man who walked fast was the man from the other end of the tunnel, so they both arrived before the secret stage door almost at the same instant.
They saluted each other with civility, and waited a moment before one of them, the sharper walker who seemed to have the shorter patience, knocked at the door.
In this and everything else each man was opposite and neither could be called inferior.
As private persons both were handsome, capable and popular.
As public persons, both were in the first public rank.
But everything about them, from their glory to their good looks, was of a diverse and incomparable kind.
Sir Wilson Seymour was the kind of man whose importance is known to everybody who knows.
The more you mixed with the innermost ring in every polity or profession, the more often you met Sir Wilson Seymour.
He was the one intelligent man on twenty unintelligent committees-on every sort of subject, from the reform of the Royal Academy to the project of bimetallism for Greater Britain.
In the Arts especially he was omnipotent.
He was so unique that nobody could quite decide whether he was a great aristocrat who had taken up Art, or a great artist whom the aristocrats had taken up.
But you could not meet him for five minutes without realizing that you had really been ruled by him all your life.
His appearance was " distinguished " in exactly the same sense; it was at once conventional and unique.
Fashion could have found no fault with his high silk hat --, yet it was unlike anyone else's hat-a little higher, perhaps, and adding something to his natural height.
His tall, slender figure had a slight stoop yet it looked the reverse of feeble.
His hair was silver-grey, but he did not look old; it was worn longer than the common yet he did not look effeminate; it was curly but it did not look curled.
His carefully pointed beard made him look more manly and militant than otherwise, as it does in those old admirals of Velazquez with whose dark portraits his house was hung.
His grey gloves were a shade bluer, his silver-knobbed cane a shade longer than scores of such gloves and canes flapped and flourished about the theatres and the restaurants.
The other man was not so tall, yet would have struck nobody as short, but merely as strong and handsome.
His hair also was curly, but fair and cropped close to a strong, massive head-the sort of head you break a door with, as Chaucer said of the Miller's.
His military moustache and the carriage of his shoulders showed him a soldier, but he had a pair of those peculiar frank and piercing blue eyes which are more common in sailors.
His face was somewhat square, his jaw was square, his shoulders were square, even his jacket was square.
Indeed, in the wild school of caricature then current, Mr Max Beerbohm had represented him as a proposition in the fourth book of Euclid.
For he also was a public man, though with quite another sort of success.
You did not have to be in the best society to have heard of Captain Cutler, of the siege of Hong-Kong, and the great march across China.
You could not get away from hearing of him wherever you were; his portrait was on every other postcard; his maps and battles in every other illustrated paper; songs in his honour in every other music-hall turn or on every other barrel-organ.
His fame, though probably more temporary, was ten times more wide, popular and spontaneous than the other man's.
In thousands of English homes he appeared enormous above England, like Nelson.
Yet he had infinitely less power in England than Sir Wilson Seymour.
The door was opened to them by an aged servant or " dresser ", whose broken-down face and figure and black shabby coat and trousers contrasted queerly with the glittering interior of the great actress's dressing-room.
It was fitted and filled with looking-glasses at every angle of refraction, so that they looked like the hundred facets of one huge diamond-if one could get inside a diamond.
They both spoke to the dingy dresser by name, calling him Parkinson, and asking for the lady as Miss Aurora Rome.
Parkinson said she was in the other room, but he would go and tell her.
A shade crossed the brow of both visitors; for the other room was the private room of the great actor with whom Miss Aurora was performing, and she was of the kind that does not inflame admiration without inflaming jealousy.
In about half a minute, however, the inner door opened, and she entered as she always did, even in private life, so that the very silence seemed to be a roar of applause, and one well-deserved.
Set in dreamy and exquisite scenery, and moving in mystical dances, the green costume, like burnished beetle-wings, expressed all the elusive individuality of an elfin queen.
But when personally confronted in what was still broad daylight, a man looked only at the woman's face.
She greeted both men with the beaming and baffling smile which kept so many males at the same just dangerous distance from her.
She accepted some flowers from Cutler, which were as tropical and expensive as his victories; and another sort of present from Sir Wilson Seymour, offered later on and more nonchalantly by that gentleman.
For it was against his breeding to show eagerness, and against his conventional unconventionality to give anything so obvious as flowers.
He had picked up a trifle, he said, which was rather a curiosity, it was an ancient Greek dagger of the Mycenaean Epoch, and might well have been worn in the time of Theseus and Hippolyta.
It was made of brass like all the Heroic weapons, but, oddly enough, sharp enough to prick anyone still.
He had really been attracted to it by the leaf-like shape; it was as perfect as a Greek vase.
If it was of any interest to Miss Rome or could come in anywhere in the play, he hoped she would --
The inner door burst open and a big figure appeared, who was more of a contrast to the explanatory Seymour than even Captain Cutler.
Nearly six-foot-six, and of more than theatrical thews and muscles, Isidore Bruno, in the gorgeous leopard skin and golden-brown garments of Oberon, looked like a barbaric god.
He leaned on a sort of hunting-spear, which across a theatre looked a slight, silvery wand, but which in the small and comparatively crowded room looked as plain as a pike-staff-and as menacing.
His vivid black eyes rolled volcanically, his bronzed face, handsome as it was, showed at that moment a combination of high cheekbones with set white teeth, which recalled certain American conjectures about his origin in the Southern plantations.
He stopped indecisively because a sixth figure had suddenly presented itself just inside the doorway-a figure so incongruous in the scene as to be almost comic.
It was a very short man in the black uniform of the Roman secular clergy, and looking (especially in such a presence as Bruno's and Aurora's) rather like the wooden Noah out of an ark.
He did not, however, seem conscious of any contrast, but said with dull civility: " I believe Miss Rome sent for me.
A shrewd observer might have remarked that the emotional temperature rather rose at so unemotional an interruption.
The detachment of a professional celibate seemed to reveal to the others that they stood round the woman as a ring of amorous rivals; just as a stranger coming in with frost on his coat will reveal that a room is like a furnace.
A shrewd person might also have noted a yet odder thing.
The man like a black wooden Noah (who was not wholly without shrewdness) noted it with a considerable but contained amusement.
There was, perhaps, only one thing that Aurora Rome was clever about, and that was one half of humanity-the other half.
The little priest watched, like a Napoleonic campaign, the swift precision of her policy for expelling all while banishing none.
Bruno, the big actor, was so babyish that it was easy to send him off in brute sulks, banging the door.
Cutler, the British officer, was pachydermatous to ideas, but punctilious about behaviour.
He would ignore all hints, but he would die rather than ignore a definite commission from a lady.
As to old Seymour, he had to be treated differently; he had to be left to the last.
The only way to move him was to appeal to him in confidence as an old friend, to let him into the secret of the clearance.
The priest did really admire Miss Rome as she achieved all these three objects in one selected action.
She went across to Captain Cutler and said in her sweetest manner: " I shall value all these flowers, because they must be your favourite flowers.
But they won't be complete, you know, without my favourite flower.
Do go over to that shop round the corner and get me some lilies-of-the-valley, and then it will be quite lovely.
The first object of her diplomacy, the exit of the enraged Bruno, was at once achieved.
He had already handed his spear in a lordly style, like a sceptre, to the piteous Parkinson, and was about to assume one of the cushioned seats like a throne.
But at this open appeal to his rival there glowed in his opal eyeballs all the sensitive insolence of the slave; he knotted his enormous brown fists for an instant, and then, dashing open the door, disappeared into his own apartments beyond.
But meanwhile Miss Rome's experiment in mobilizing the British Army had not succeeded so simply as seemed probable.
Cutler had indeed risen stiffly and suddenly, and walked towards the door, hatless, as if at a word of command.
But perhaps there was something ostentatiously elegant about the languid figure of Seymour leaning against one of the looking-glasses that brought him up short at the entrance, turning his head this way and that like a bewildered bulldog.
Yet a second or two after Seymour's brow darkened again.
A man in his position has so many rivals, and he remembered that at the other end of the passage was the corresponding entrance to Bruno's private room.
He did not lose his dignity; he said some civil words to Father Brown about the revival of Byzantine architecture in the Westminster Cathedral, and then, quite naturally, strolled out himself into the upper end of the passage.
Father Brown and Parkinson were left alone, and they were neither of them men with a taste for superfluous conversation.
The dresser went round the room, pulling out looking-glasses and pushing them in again, his dingy dark coat and trousers looking all the more dismal since he was still holding the festive fairy spear of King Oberon.
Father Brown seemed quite unconscious of this cloud of witnesses, but followed Parkinson with an idly attentive eye till he took himself and his absurd spear into the farther room of Bruno.
Then he abandoned himself to such abstract meditations as always amused him-calculating the angles of the mirrors, the angles of each refraction, the angle at which each must fit into the wall... when he heard a strong but strangled cry.
He sprang to his feet and stood rigidly listening.
At the same instant Sir Wilson Seymour burst back into the room, white as ivory.
Before Father Brown could turn in his heavy boots Seymour was plunging about the room looking for the weapon.
And before he could possibly find that weapon or any other, a brisk running of feet broke upon the pavement outside, and the square face of Cutler was thrust into the same doorway.
He was still grotesquely grasping a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley.
Is this some of your tricks?
hissed his pale rival, and made a stride towards him.
In the instant of time in which all this happened Father Brown stepped out into the top of the passage, looked down it, and at once walked briskly towards what he saw.
At this the other two men dropped their quarrel and darted after him, Cutler calling out: " What are you doing?
The three men looked down, and in one of them at least the life died in that late light of afternoon.
It ran along the passage like a path of gold, and in the midst of it Aurora Rome lay lustrous in her robes of green and gold, with her dead face turned upwards.
Her dress was torn away as in a struggle, leaving the right shoulder bare, but the wound from which the blood was welling was on the other side.
The brass dagger lay flat and gleaming a yard or so away.
There was a blank stillness for a measurable time, so that they could hear far off a flower-girl's laugh outside Charing Cross, and someone whistling furiously for a taxicab in one of the streets off the Strand.
Then the Captain, with a movement so sudden that it might have been passion or play-acting, took Sir Wilson Seymour by the throat.
Seymour looked at him steadily without either fight or fear.
The Captain's hand hesitated and dropped; and the other added with the same icy candour: " If I find I haven't the nerve to do it with that dagger I can do it in a month with drink.
Not yours-but I think I know whose.
And before the others could appreciate his intention he snatched up the dagger, sprang at the other door at the lower end of the passage, burst it open, bolt and all, and confronted Bruno in his dressing-room.
As he did so, old Parkinson tottered in his wavering way out of the door and caught sight of the corpse lying in the passage.
He moved shakily towards it; looked at it weakly with a working face; then moved shakily back into the dressing-room again, and sat down suddenly on one of the richly cushioned chairs.
Father Brown instantly ran across to him, taking no notice of Cutler and the colossal actor, though the room already rang with their blows and they began to struggle for the dagger.
Seymour, who retained some practical sense, was whistling for the police at the end of the passage.
When the police arrived it was to tear the two men from an almost ape-like grapple; and, after a few formal inquiries, to arrest Isidore Bruno upon a charge of murder, brought against him by his furious opponent.
The idea that the great national hero of the hour had arrested a wrongdoer with his own hand doubtless had its weight with the police, who are not without elements of the journalist.
They treated Cutler with a certain solemn attention, and pointed out that he had got a slight slash on the hand.
Even as Cutler bore him back across tilted chair and table, Bruno had twisted the dagger out of his grasp and disabled him just below the wrist.
The injury was really slight, but till he was removed from the room the half-savage prisoner stared at the running blood with a steady smile.
said the constable confidentially to Cutler.
Cutler made no answer, but said sharply a moment after: " We must attend to the... the death..." and his voice escaped from articulation.
And he stood looking down at old Parkinson, who sat in a black huddle on the gorgeous chair.
He also had paid his tribute, not without eloquence, to the woman who had died.
The silence was first broken by Cutler, who seemed not untouched by a rough tenderness.
She was his air, and he's dried up.
They took leave of Father Brown at the corner of the road, with some random apologies for any rudeness they might have shown.
Both their faces were tragic, but also cryptic.
The mind of the little priest was always a rabbit-warren of wild thoughts that jumped too quickly for him to catch them.
Like the white tail of a rabbit he had the vanishing thought that he was certain of their grief, but not so certain of their innocence.
They both started as if guiltily, and Cutler said sharply: " To hurt whom?
You've done nearly everything you could do to hang yourselves, if this actor should be acquitted.
They'll be sure to subpoena me; I shall be bound to say that after the cry was heard each of you rushed into the room in a wild state and began quarrelling about a dagger.
As far as my words on oath can go, you might either of you have done it.
You hurt yourselves with that; and then Captain Cutler must have hurt himself with the dagger.
exclaimed the Captain, with contempt.
And so we shall never know whether there was blood on it before.
There was a silence; and then Seymour said, with an emphasis quite alien to his daily accent: " But I saw a man in the passage.
That's what seems so improbable.
Before either could make sufficient sense of it even to answer, Father Brown had politely excused himself and gone stumping up the road with his stumpy old umbrella.
As modern newspapers are conducted, the most honest and most important news is the police news.
If it be true that in the twentieth century more space is given to murder than to politics, it is for the excellent reason that murder is a more serious subject.
But even this would hardly explain the enormous omnipresence and widely distributed detail of " The Bruno Case," or " The Passage Mystery," in the Press of London and the provinces.
So vast was the excitement that for some weeks the Press really told the truth; and the reports of examination and cross-examination, if interminable, even if intolerable are at least reliable.
The true reason, of course, was the coincidence of persons.
The victim was a popular actress; the accused was a popular actor; and the accused had been caught red-handed, as it were, by the most popular soldier of the patriotic season.
In those extraordinary circumstances the Press was paralysed into probity and accuracy; and the rest of this somewhat singular business can practically be recorded from reports of Bruno's trial.
All the chief actors being of a worldly importance, the barristers were well balanced; the prosecutor for the Crown was Sir Walter Cowdray, a heavy, but weighty advocate of the sort that knows how to seem English and trustworthy, and how to be rhetorical with reluctance.
The prisoner was defended by Mr Patrick Butler, K. C., who was mistaken for a mere flaneur by those who misunderstood the Irish character-and those who had not been examined by him.
The medical evidence involved no contradictions, the doctor, whom Seymour had summoned on the spot, agreeing with the eminent surgeon who had later examined the body.
Aurora Rome had been stabbed with some sharp instrument such as a knife or dagger; some instrument, at least, of which the blade was short.
The wound was just over the heart, and she had died instantly.
When the doctor first saw her she could hardly have been dead for twenty minutes.
Therefore when Father Brown found her she could hardly have been dead for three.
When these details had been supplied, though not explained, the first of the important witnesses was called.
Sir Wilson Seymour gave evidence as he did everything else that he did at all-not only well, but perfectly.
He was also refreshingly lucid, as he was on the committees.
Miss Rome had then gone just outside the theatre to the entrance of the passage, in order to point out to Captain Cutler a flower-shop at which he was to buy her some more flowers; and the witness had remained in the room, exchanging a few words with the priest.
He had then distinctly heard the deceased, having sent the Captain on his errand, turn round laughing and run down the passage towards its other end, where was the prisoner's dressing-room.
In idle curiosity as to the rapid movement of his friends, he had strolled out to the head of the passage himself and looked down it towards the prisoner's door.
Did he see anything in the passage?
Yes; he saw something in the passage.
Sir Walter Cowdray allowed an impressive interval, during which the witness looked down, and for all his usual composure seemed to have more than his usual pallor.
Then the barrister said in a lower voice, which seemed at once sympathetic and creepy: " Did you see it distinctly?
Sir Wilson Seymour, however moved, had his excellent brains in full working-order.
The passage is of such length that anyone in the middle of it appears quite black against the light at the other end.
The witness lowered his steady eyes once more and added: " I had noticed the fact before, when Captain Cutler first entered it.
There was another silence, and the judge leaned forward and made a note.
Was it, for instance, like the figure of the murdered woman?
Everyone in court kept his eyes riveted on his pen, or his umbrella-handle, or his book, or his boots or whatever he happened to be looking at.
They seemed to be holding their eyes away from the prisoner by main force; but they felt his figure in the dock, and they felt it as gigantic.
Tall as Bruno was to the eye, he seemed to swell taller and taller when an eyes had been torn away from him.
Cowdray was resuming his seat with his solemn face, smoothing his black silk robes, and white silk whiskers.
Sir Wilson was leaving the witness-box, after a few final particulars to which there were many other witnesses, when the counsel for the defence sprang up and stopped him.
A faint, refined smile seemed to pass over Seymour's features.
Butler's sleepy eyes opened as suddenly as some silent explosion.
Seymour looked troubled for the first time.
There was something about the thing that was not exactly a woman and yet was not quite a man; somehow the curves were different.
And it had something that looked like long hair.
Captain Cutler was a far less plausible and composed witness than Sir Wilson, but his account of the opening incidents was solidly the same.
He described the return of Bruno to his dressing-room, the dispatching of himself to buy a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley, his return to the upper end of the passage, the thing he saw in the passage, his suspicion of Seymour, and his struggle with Bruno.
But he could give little artistic assistance about the black figure that he and Seymour had seen.
Asked about its outline, he said he was no art critic-with a somewhat too obvious sneer at Seymour.
Asked if it was a man or a woman, he said it looked more like a beast-with a too obvious snarl at the prisoner.
But the man was plainly shaken with sorrow and sincere anger, and Cowdray quickly excused him from confirming facts that were already fairly clear.
The defending counsel also was again brief in his cross-examination; although (as was his custom) even in being brief, he seemed to take a long time about it.
Cutler seemed seriously agitated.
Mr Butler cut short his curious impatience in the middle.
The figure, if I understand you, was rather heavy and square than otherwise?
The third, witness called by Sir Walter Cowdray was the little Catholic clergyman, so little, compared with the others, that his head seemed hardly to come above the box, so that it was like cross-examining a child.
But unfortunately Sir Walter had somehow got it into his head (mostly by some ramifications of his family's religion) that Father Brown was on the side of the prisoner, because the prisoner was wicked and foreign and even partly black.
Therefore he took Father Brown up sharply whenever that proud pontiff tried to explain anything; and told him to answer yes or no, and tell the plain facts without any jesuitry.
When Father Brown began, in his simplicity, to say who he thought the man in the passage was, the barrister told him that he did not want his theories.
And you say you saw the black shape.
Father Brown blinked as under rebuke; but he had long known the literal nature of obedience.
the devil with horns, no doubt," ejaculated Cowdray, sitting down in triumphant jocularity.
Those in court had been wrought up to an irrational, but real sense of some monstrosity.
They had forgotten the figure in the dock and thought only of the figure in the passage.
And the figure in the passage, described by three capable and respectable men who had all seen it, was a shifting nightmare: one called it a woman, and the other a beast, and the other a devil...
The judge was looking at Father Brown with level and piercing eyes.
Well, who was the man you saw in the passage?
Butler, K. C., sprang to his feet in an extraordinary stillness, and said quite calmly: " Your lordship will allow me to cross-examine?
And then, without stopping, he shot at Brown the apparently disconnected question: " You have heard about this dagger; you know the experts say the crime was committed with a short blade?
Before the audience could quite dismiss the idea that the priest had really seen himself doing murder with a short dagger with a long hilt (which seemed somehow to make it more horrible), he had himself hurried on to explain.
Spears have short blades.
But he died penitent-he just died of being penitent.
He couldn't bear what he'd done.
The general impression in court was that the little priest, who was gobbling away, had literally gone mad in the box.
But the judge still looked at him with bright and steady eyes of interest; and the counsel for the defence went on with his questions unperturbed.
How do you account for signs of struggle, like the dress dragged off the shoulder?
He had slipped into treating his mere witness as an expert; but no one noticed it now.
She struggled to free herself, and as she did so Parkinson came out of the prisoner's room and lunged with the spear.
repeated the barrister in a curious voice.
There was another vast and unnatural silence, and this time it was the judge who spoke.
The judge leaned forward, his old eyes yet more brilliant, and said in specially distinct tones: " Do you really mean to say that when Sir Wilson Seymour saw that wild what-you-call-him with curves and a woman's hair and a man's trousers, what he saw was Sir Wilson Seymour?
The judge leaned back in his chair with a luxuriance in which it was hard to separate the cynicism and the admiration.
Father Brown blinked even more painfully than before; then he stammered: " Really, my lord, I don't know unless it's because I don't look at it so often.
FLAMBEAU and his friend the priest were sitting in the Temple Gardens about sunset; and their neighbourhood or some such accidental influence had turned their talk to matters of legal process.
From the problem of the licence in cross-examination, their talk strayed to Roman and mediaeval torture, to the examining magistrate in France and the Third Degree in America.
You know what I mean; they put a pulsometer on a man's wrist and judge by how his heart goes at the pronunciation of certain words.
Blood will have to flow very funnily; blood will have to flow up the Matterhorn, before I will take it as a sign that I am to shed it.
exclaimed Father Brown, " and how much more sentimental must American men of science be!
Who but a Yankee would think of proving anything from heart-throbs?
Why, they must be as sentimental as a man who thinks a woman is in love with him if she blushes.
That's a test from the circulation of the blood, discovered by the immortal Harvey; and a jolly rotten test, too.
Why, the other end of the stick always points the opposite way.
It depends whether you get hold of the stick by the right end.
I saw the thing done once and I've never believed in it since.
And he proceeded to tell the story of his disillusionment.
It happened nearly twenty years before, when he was chaplain to his co-religionists in a prison in Chicago-where the Irish population displayed a capacity both for crime and penitence which kept him tolerably busy.
The official second-in-command under the Governor was an ex-detective named Greywood Usher, a cadaverous, careful-spoken Yankee philosopher, occasionally varying a very rigid visage with an odd apologetic grimace.
He liked Father Brown in a slightly patronizing way; and Father Brown liked him, though he heartily disliked his theories.
His theories were extremely complicated and were held with extreme simplicity.
One evening he had sent for the priest, who, according to his custom, took a seat in silence at a table piled and littered with papers, and waited.
The official selected from the papers a scrap of newspaper cutting, which he handed across to the cleric, who read it gravely.
It appeared to be an extract from one of the pinkest of American Society papers, and ran as follows:
All our exclusive citizens will recall the Perambulator Parade Dinner, in which Last-Trick Todd, at his palatial home at Pilgrim's Pond, caused so many of our prominent debutantes to look even younger than their years.
The witticism which will inspire this evening is as yet in Mr Todd's pretty reticent intellect, or locked in the jewelled bosoms of our city's gayest leaders; but there is talk of a pretty parody of the simple manners and customs at the other end of Society's scale.
This would be all the more telling, as hospitable Todd is entertaining in Lord Falconroy, the famous traveller, a true-blooded aristocrat fresh from England's oak-groves.
Lord Falconroy's travels began before his ancient feudal title was resurrected, he was in the Republic in his youth, and fashion murmurs a sly reason for his return.
Miss Etta Todd is one of our deep-souled New Yorkers, and comes into an income of nearly twelve hundred million dollars.
And, unless the just anger of the Republic is at last going to electrocute journalists for writing like that, I don't quite see why it should interest you either.
said Mr Usher dryly, and handing across another scrap of newspaper.
The paragraph was headed " Savage Murder of a Warder.
Convict Escapes," and ran: " Just before dawn this morning a shout for help was heard in the Convict Settlement at Sequah in this State.
The authorities, hurrying in the direction of the cry, found the corpse of the warder who patrols the top of the north wall of the prison, the steepest and most difficult exit, for which one man has always been found sufficient.
The unfortunate officer had, however, been hurled from the high wall, his brains beaten out as with a club, and his gun was missing.
Further inquiries showed that one of the cells was empty; it had been occupied by a rather sullen ruffian giving his name as Oscar Rian.
He was only temporarily detained for some comparatively trivial assault; but he gave everyone the impression of a man with a black past and a dangerous future.
Finally, when daylight bad fully revealed the scene of murder, it was found that he had written on the wall above the body a fragmentary sentence, apparently with a finger dipped in blood: 'This was self-defence and he had the gun.
I meant no harm to him or any man but one.
I am keeping the bullet for Pilgrim's Pond-O. R.'
A man must have used most fiendish treachery or most savage and amazing bodily daring to have stormed such a wall in spite of an armed man.
I should cut a poor figure, with my short legs, running about this State after an athletic assassin of that sort.
I doubt whether anybody could find him.
The convict settlement at Sequah is thirty miles from here; the country between is wild and tangled enough, and the country beyond, where he will surely have the sense to go, is a perfect no-man's land tumbling away to the prairies.
He may be in any hole or up any tree.
asked Father Brown, blinking.
Father Brown opened his innocent eyes wide.
You know I sometimes take a turn in the country lanes outside this dismal place; well, I was walking early this evening up a steep lane with dark hedges and grey-looking ploughed fields on both sides; and a young moon was up and silvering the road.
By the light of it I saw a man running across the field towards the road; running with his body bent and at a good mile-race trot.
He appeared to be much exhausted; but when he came to the thick black hedge he went through it as if it were made of spiders'webs;-or rather (for I heard the strong branches breaking and snapping like bayonets) as if he himself were made of stone.
In the instant in which he appeared up against the moon, crossing the road, I slung my hooked cane at his legs, tripping him and bringing him down.
Then I blew my whistle long and loud, and our fellows came running up to secure him.
Nor do they run all doubled up like a crouching dog.
There were more decisive details to a fairly well-trained eye.
The man was clad in coarse and ragged clothes, but they were something more than merely coarse and ragged.
They were so ill-fitting as to be quite grotesque; even as he appeared in black outline against the moonrise, the coat-collar in which his head was buried made him look like a hunchback, and the long loose sleeves looked as if he had no hands.
It at once occurred to me that he had somehow managed to change his convict clothes for some confederate's clothes which did not fit him.
Second, there was a pretty stiff wind against which he was running; so that I must have seen the streaky look of blowing hair, if the hair had not been very short.
Then I remembered that beyond these ploughed fields he was crossing lay Pilgrim's Pond, for which (you will remember) the convict was keeping his bullet; and I sent my walking-stick flying.
As Usher stopped abruptly in his walk the priest added apologetically: " I've been told a bullet is not half so useful without it.
Probably the same policy that made him change the clothes made him drop the gun; he began to repent the coat he had left behind him in the blood of his victim.
His clerical friend asked faintly: " But how?
And Greywood Usher threw down the newspapers and took up the two press-cuttings again.
You will notice that these two cuttings have only one thing in common, which is the mention of Pilgrim's Pond, the estate, as you know, of the millionaire Ireton Todd.
You also know that he is a remarkable character; one of those that rose on stepping-stones --
He stretched himself once more before the fire and continued talking in his expansive, radiantly explanatory style.
It is not mysterious, it is not even odd, that a jailbird should take his gun to Pilgrim's Pond.
Our people aren't like the English, who will forgive a man for being rich if he throws away money on hospitals or horses.
Last-Trick Todd has made himself big by his own considerable abilities; and there's no doubt that many of those on whom he has shown his abilities would like to show theirs on him with a shot-gun.
Todd might easily get dropped by some man he'd never even heard of; some labourer he'd locked out, or some clerk in a business he'd busted.
Last-Trick is a man of mental endowments and a high public character; but in this country the relations of employers and employed are considerably strained.
So it looked to me, till another little discovery woke up what I have of the detective in me.
When I had my prisoner safe, I picked up my cane again and strolled down the two or three turns of country road that brought me to one of the side entrances of Todd's grounds, the one nearest to the pool or lake after which the place is named.
It was some two hours ago, about seven by this time; the moonlight was more luminous, and I could see the long white streaks of it lying on the mysterious mere with its grey, greasy, half-liquid shores in which they say our fathers used to make witches walk until they sank.
I'd forgotten the exact tale; but you know the place I mean; it lies north of Todd's house towards the wilderness, and has two queer wrinkled trees, so dismal that they look more like huge fungoids than decent foliage.
As I stood peering at this misty pool, I fancied I saw the faint figure of a man moving from the house towards it, but it was all too dim and distant for one to be certain of the fact, and still less of the details.
Besides, my attention was very sharply arrested by something much closer.
I crouched behind the fence which ran not more than two hundred yards from one wing of the great mansion, and which was fortunately split in places, as if specially for the application of a cautious eye.
A door had opened in the dark bulk of the left wing, and a figure appeared black against the illuminated interior-a muffled figure bending forward, evidently peering out into the night.
It closed the door behind it, and I saw it was carrying a lantern, which threw a patch of imperfect light on the dress and figure of the wearer.
It seemed to be the figure of a woman, wrapped up in a ragged cloak and evidently disguised to avoid notice; there was something very strange both about the rags and the furtiveness in a person coming out of those rooms lined with gold.
As she swung it the second time a flicker of its light fell for a moment on her own face, a face that I knew.
She was unnaturally pale, and her head was bundled in her borrowed plebeian shawl; but I am certain it was Etta Todd, the millionaire's daughter.
I was about to climb the fence and follow, when I realized that the detective fever that had lured me into the adventure was rather undignified; and that in a more authoritative capacity I already held all the cards in my hand.
I was just turning away when a new noise broke on the night.
There was no mistaking that voice.
I have heard it on many a political platform or meeting of directors; it was Ireton Todd himself.
Some of the others seemed to have gone to the lower windows or on to the steps, and were calling up to him that Falconroy had gone for a stroll down to the Pilgrim's Pond an hour before, and could not be traced since.
Then Todd cried 'Mighty Murder!'
and shut down the window violently; and I could hear him plunging down the stairs inside.
Repossessing myself of my former and wiser purpose, I whipped out of the way of the general search that must follow; and returned here not later than eight o'clock.
If the convict was not keeping the shot for Todd, as he evidently wasn't, it is most likely that he was keeping it for Lord Falconroy; and it looks as if he had delivered the goods.
No more handy place to shoot a man than in the curious geological surroundings of that pool, where a body thrown down would sink through thick slime to a depth practically unknown.
Let us suppose, then, that our friend with the cropped hair came to kill Falconroy and not Todd.
But, as I have pointed out, there are many reasons why people in America might want to kill Todd.
There is no reason why anybody in America should want to kill an English lord newly landed, except for the one reason mentioned in the pink paper-that the lord is paying his attentions to the millionaire's daughter.
Our crop-haired friend, despite his ill-fitting clothes, must be an aspiring lover.
It sounds to you like saying the Archbishop of Canterbury's daughter will be married in St George's, Hanover Square, to a crossing-sweeper on ticket-of-leave.
You don't do justice to the climbing and aspiring power of our more remarkable citizens.
You see a good-looking grey-haired man in evening-dress with a sort of authority about him, you know he is a pillar of the State, and you fancy he had a father.
You do not realize that a comparatively few years ago he may have been in a tenement or (quite likely) in a jail.
You don't allow for our national buoyancy and uplift.
Many of our most influential citizens have not only risen recently, but risen comparatively late in life.
Todd's daughter was fully eighteen when her father first made his pile; so there isn't really anything impossible in her having a hanger-on in low life; or even in her hanging on to him, as I think she must be doing, to judge by the lantern business.
If so, the hand that held the lantern may not be unconnected with the hand that held the gun.
This case, sir, will make a noise.
I am given a good deal of discretion here, and perhaps take a little more than I'm given; and I thought it was an excellent opportunity to test that Psychometric Machine I told you about.
Now, in my opinion, that machine can't lie.
The trick is to introduce some word connected with the supposed crime in a list of words connected with something quite different, yet a list in which it occurs quite naturally.
Thus I wrote 'heron'and 'eagle'and 'owl ', and when I wrote 'falcon'he was tremendously agitated; and when I began to make an 'r'at the end of the word, that machine just bounded.
Who else in this republic has any reason to jump at the name of a newly-arrived Englishman like Falconroy except the man who's shot him?
Isn't that better evidence than a lot of gabble from witnesses-if the evidence of a reliable machine?
I don't want to be rude; and I don't think you will consider Man to be an offensive or inaccurate description of yourself.
You say you observed his manner; but how do you know you observed it right?
You say the words have to come in a natural way; but how do you know that you did it naturally?
How do you know, if you come to that, that he did not observe your manner?
Who is to prove that you were not tremendously agitated?
There was no machine tied on to your pulse.
If you could tell by his manner when the word that might hang him had come, why shouldn't he tell from your manner that the word that might hang him was coming?
I should ask for more than words myself before I hanged anybody.
Usher smote the table and rose in a sort of angry triumph.
I tried the machine first just in order to test the thing in other ways afterwards and the machine, sir, is right.
He paused a moment and resumed with less excitement.
There was really nothing against the man at all.
His clothes were ill-fitting, as I've said, but they were rather better, if anything, than those of the submerged class to which he evidently belonged.
Moreover, under all the stains of his plunging through ploughed fields or bursting through dusty hedges, the man was comparatively clean.
This might mean, of course, that he had only just broken prison; but it reminded me more of the desperate decency of the comparatively respectable poor.
His demeanour was, I am bound to confess, quite in accordance with theirs.
He was silent and dignified as they are; he seemed to have a big, but buried, grievance, as they do.
He professed total ignorance of the crime and the whole question; and showed nothing but a sullen impatience for something sensible that might come to take him out of his meaningless scrape.
He asked me more than once if he could telephone for a lawyer who had helped him a long time ago in a trade dispute, and in every sense acted as you would expect an innocent man to act.
There was nothing against him in the world except that little finger on the dial that pointed to the change of his pulse.
By the time I came with him out of the private room into the vestibule where all sorts of other people were awaiting examination, I think he had already more or less made up his mind to clear things up by something like a confession.
He turned to me and began to say in a low voice: 'Oh, I can't stick this any more.
If you must know all about me --'
I have never in my life heard anything more demoniacally distinct.
Her lean finger seemed to pick him out as if it were a pea-shooter.
Though the word was a mere howl, every syllable was as clear as a separate stroke on the clock.
If I had never heard the words, I should have known by the very shock upon his features that the so-called Oscar Rian had heard his real name.
But I'm not quite so ignorant, you may be surprised to hear.
Drugger Davis was one of the most terrible and depraved criminals that ever baffled our police.
It is certain he had done murder more than once long before his last exploit with the warder.
But he was never entirely fixed for it, curiously enough because he did it in the same manner as those milder-or meaner-crimes for which he was fixed pretty often.
He was a handsome, well-bred-looking brute, as he still is, to some extent; and he used mostly to go about with barmaids or shop-girls and do them out of their money.
Very often, though, he went a good deal farther; and they were found drugged with cigarettes or chocolates and their whole property missing.
Then came one case where the girl was found dead; but deliberation could not quite be proved, and, what was more practical still, the criminal could not be found.
I heard a rumour of his having reappeared somewhere in the opposite character this time, lending money instead of borrowing it; but still to such poor widows as he might personally fascinate, but still with the same bad result for them.
Well, there is your innocent man, and there is his innocent record.
Even, since then, four criminals and three warders have identified him and confirmed the story.
Now what have you got to say to my poor little machine after that?
Hasn't the machine done for him?
Or do you prefer to say that the woman and I have done for him?
I don't think they can kill Drugger Davis on that old vague story of the poison; and as for the convict who killed the warder, I suppose it's obvious that you haven't got him.
Mr Davis is innocent of that crime, at any rate.
cried the small man in one of his rare moments of animation, " why, because he's guilty of the other crimes!
I don't know what you people are made of.
You seem to think that all sins are kept together in a bag.
You talk as if a miser on Monday were always a spendthrift on Tuesday.
Let it be granted-let us admit, for the sake of argument, that he did all this.
If that is so, I will tell you what he didn't do.
He didn't storm a spiked wall against a man with a loaded gun.
He didn't write on the wall with his own hand, to say he had done it.
He didn't stop to state that his justification was self-defence.
He didn't explain that he had no quarrel with the poor warder.
He didn't name the house of the rich man to which he was going with the gun.
He didn't write his own, initials in a man's blood.
Can't you see the whole character is different, in good and evil?
Why, you don't seem to be like I am a bit.
One would think you'd never had any vices of your own.
The amazed American had already parted his lips in protest when the door of his private and official room was hammered and rattled in an unceremonious way to which he was totally unaccustomed.
The moment before Greywood Usher had been coming to the conclusion that Father Brown might possibly be mad.
The moment after he began to think he was mad himself.
There burst and fell into his private room a man in the filthiest rags, with a greasy squash hat still askew on his head, and a shabby green shade shoved up from one of his eyes, both of which were glaring like a tiger's.
The rest of his face was almost undiscoverable, being masked with a matted beard and whiskers through which the nose could barely thrust itself, and further buried in a squalid red scarf or handkerchief.
Mr Usher prided himself on having seen most of the roughest specimens in the State, but he thought he had never seen such a baboon dressed as a scarecrow as this.
But, above all, he had never in all his placid scientific existence heard a man like that speak to him first.
Don't you try any of your hide-and-seek on me; I don't get fooled any.
Leave go of my guests, and I'll let up on the fancy clockwork.
Keep him here for a split instant and you'll feel pretty mean.
I reckon I'm not a man with no pull.
The eminent Usher was regarding the bellowing monster with an amazement which had dried up all other sentiments.
The mere shock to his eyes had rendered his ears, almost useless.
At last he rang a bell with a hand of violence.
While the bell was still strong and pealing, the voice of Father Brown fell soft but distinct.
I don't know this gentleman-but-but I think I know him.
Now, you know him-you know him quite well-but you don't know him-naturally.
Sounds paradoxical, I know.
yelled Usher, suddenly sitting up straight.
Then he picked up the pink slip of newspaper.
There's been a big Slum Dinner up at Pilgrim's Pond tonight; and a man, one of the guests, disappeared.
Mr Ireton Todd is a good host, and has tracked him here, without even waiting to take off his fancy-dress.
Hadn't you better go and investigate him?
He will be rather impatient to get back to his champagne, from which he ran away in such a hurry, when the convict with the gun hove in sight.
But the other machine did; the machine that worked it.
You assumed that the man in rags jumped at the name of Lord Falconroy, because he was Lord Falconroy's murderer.
He jumped at the name of Lord Falconroy because he is Lord Falconroy.
demanded the staring Usher.
But he was just going to tell it you, when "and Father Brown looked down at his boots --" when a woman found another name for him.
The priest looked at him very earnestly, but with a baffling and undecipherable face.
Your pink paper says that the title was recently revived for him; but those papers are very unreliable.
It says he was in the States in youth; but the whole story seems very strange.
Davis and Falconroy are both pretty considerable cowards, but so are lots of other men.
I would not hang a dog on my own opinion about this.
But I think," he went on softly and reflectively, " I think you Americans are too modest.
I think you idealize the English aristocracy-even in assuming it to be so aristocratic.
You see a good-looking Englishman in evening-dress; you know he's in the House of Lords; and you fancy he has a father.
You don't allow for our national buoyancy and uplift.
Many of our most influential noblemen have not only risen recently, but --
cried Greywood Usher, wringing one lean hand in impatience against a shade of irony in the other's face.
Next morning Father Brown appeared with the same demure expression, carrying yet another piece of pink newspaper.
Usher read the headlines, " Last-Trick's Strayed Revellers: Mirthful Incident near Pilgrim's Pond.
The paragraph went on: " A laughable occurrence took place outside Wilkinson's Motor Garage last night.
A policeman on duty had his attention drawn by larrikins to a man in prison dress who was stepping with considerable coolness into the steering-seat of a pretty high-toned Panhard; he was accompanied by a girl wrapped in a ragged shawl.
On the police interfering, the young woman threw back the shawl, and all recognized Millionaire Todd's daughter, who had just come from the Slum Freak Dinner at the Pond, where all the choicest guests were in a similar deshabille.
She and the gentleman who had donned prison uniform were going for the customary joy-ride.
Under the pink slip Mr Usher found a strip of a later paper, headed, " Astounding Escape of Millionaire's Daughter with Convict.
She had Arranged Freak Dinner.
Mr Greenwood Usher lifted his eyes, but Father Brown was gone.
THERE is somewhere in Brompton or Kensington an interminable avenue of tall houses, rich but largely empty, that looks like a terrace of tombs.
The very steps up to the dark front doors seem as steep as the side of pyramids; one would hesitate to knock at the door, lest it should be opened by a mummy.
But a yet more depressing feature in the grey facade is its telescopic length and changeless continuity.
The pilgrim walking down it begins to think he will never come to a break or a corner; but there is one exception-a very small one, but hailed by the pilgrim almost with a shout.
There is a sort of mews between two of the tall mansions, a mere slit like the crack of a door by comparison with the street, but just large enough to permit a pigmy ale-house or eating-house, still allowed by the rich to their stable-servants, to stand in the angle.
There is something cheery in its very dinginess, and something free and elfin in its very insignificance.
At the feet of those grey stone giants it looks like a lighted house of dwarfs.
It was, in fact, the face of one with the harmless human name of Brown, formerly priest of Cobhole in Essex, and now working in London.
His friend, Flambeau, a semi-official investigator, was sitting opposite him, making his last notes of a case he had cleared up in the neighbourhood.
They were sitting at a small table, close up to the window, when the priest pulled the curtain back and looked out.
He waited till a stranger in the street had passed the window, to let the curtain fall into its place again.
Then his round eyes rolled to the large white lettering on the window above his head, and then strayed to the next table, at which sat only a navvy with beer and cheese, and a young girl with red hair and a glass of milk.
Then (seeing his friend put away the pocket-book), he said softly:
Flambeau looked up in surprise; but the girl with the red hair also looked up, and with something that was stronger than astonishment.
She was simply and even loosely dressed in light brown sacking stuff; but she was a lady, and even, on a second glance, a rather needlessly haughty one.
He went down there "and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in one of his undistinguished gestures-" and can't have passed three lamp-posts yet.
I only want to know the direction.
Flambeau gazed at his friend for some time, with an expression between perplexity and amusement; and then, rising from the table; squeezed his huge form out of the little door of the dwarf tavern, and melted into the twilight.
Father Brown took a small book out of his pocket and began to read steadily; he betrayed no consciousness of the fact that the red-haired lady had left her own table and sat down opposite him.
At last she leaned over and said in a low, strong voice: " Why do you say that?
How do you know it's false?
He lifted his rather heavy eyelids, which fluttered in considerable embarrassment.
Then his dubious eye roamed again to the white lettering on the glass front of the public-house.
The young woman's eyes followed his, and rested there also, but in pure puzzledom.
inquired the staring young lady.
His ruminating eye roved to the girl's light canvas sleeve, round the wrist of which ran a very slight thread of artistic pattern, just enough to distinguish it from a working-dress of a common woman and make it more like the working-dress of a lady art-student.
He seemed to find much food for thought in this; but his reply was very slow and hesitant.
They never go into such places from choice, except --
He continued his dreamy monologue.
This street is the only original long lane that has no turning; and the houses on both sides are shut up...
I could only suppose that you'd seen somebody coming whom you didn't want to meet; and found the public-house was the only shelter in this wilderness of stone...
I don't think I went beyond the licence of a stranger in glancing at the only man who passed immediately after... And as I thought he looked like the wrong sort... and you looked like the right sort...
I held myself ready to help if he annoyed you; that is all.
As for my friend, he'll be back soon; and he certainly can't find out anything by stumping down a road like this...
she cried, leaning forward with yet warmer curiosity.
She had the proud, impetuous face that goes with reddish colouring, and a Roman nose, as it did in Marie Antoinette.
He looked at her steadily for the first time, and said: " Because I hoped you would speak to me.
After a pause she added: " I had the honour to ask you why you thought the man's nose was false.
The priest smiled in his turn.
observed Brown absent-mindedly.
she demanded, rather shakily.
The girl sprang to her feet and stood quite quietly, but with clenched hands, like one about to stride away; then her hands loosened slowly, and she sat down again.
That is why atheism is only a nightmare.
Well, my name is Christabel Carstairs; and my father was that Colonel Carstairs you've probably heard of, who made the famous Carstairs Collection of Roman coins.
I could never describe my father to you; the nearest I can say is that he was very like a Roman coin himself.
He was as handsome and as genuine and as valuable and as metallic and as out-of-date.
He was prouder of his Collection than of his coat-of-arms-nobody could say more than that.
His extraordinary character came out most in his will.
He had two sons and one daughter.
He quarrelled with one son, my brother Giles, and sent him to Australia on a small allowance.
He then made a will leaving the Carstairs Collection, actually with a yet smaller allowance, to my brother Arthur.
He meant it as a reward, as the highest honour he could offer, in acknowledgement of Arthur's loyalty and rectitude and the distinctions he had already gained in mathematics and economics at Cambridge.
He left me practically all his pretty large fortune; and I am sure he meant it in contempt.
Though he had some differences with my father in early youth, no sooner had he taken over the Collection than he became like a pagan priest dedicated to a temple.
He mixed up these Roman halfpence with the honour of the Carstairs family in the same stiff, idolatrous way as his father before him.
He acted as if Roman money must be guarded by all the Roman virtues.
He took no pleasures; he spent nothing on himself; he lived for the Collection.
Often he would not trouble to dress for his simple meals; but pattered about among the corded brown-paper parcels (which no one else was allowed to touch) in an old brown dressing-gown.
With its rope and tassel and his pale, thin, refined face, it made him look like an old ascetic monk.
Every now and then, though, he would appear dressed like a decidedly fashionable gentleman; but that was only when he went up to the London sales or shops to make an addition to the Carstairs Collection.
I'm not like my brother Arthur; I can't help enjoying enjoyment.
I got a lot of romance and rubbish where I got my red hair, from the other side of the family.
Poor Giles was the same; and I think the atmosphere of coins might count in excuse for him; though he really did wrong and nearly went to prison.
But he didn't behave any worse than I did; as you shall hear.
I think a man as clever as you can guess the sort of thing that would begin to relieve the monotony for an unruly girl of seventeen placed in such a position.
But I am so rattled with more dreadful things that I can hardly read my own feeling; and don't know whether I despise it now as a flirtation or bear it as a broken heart.
We lived then at a little seaside watering-place in South Wales, and a retired sea-captain living a few doors off had a son about five years older than myself, who had been a friend of Giles before he went to the Colonies.
His name does not affect my tale; but I tell you it was Philip Hawker, because I am telling you everything.
We used to go shrimping together, and said and thought we were in love with each other; at least he certainly said he was, and I certainly thought I was.
If I tell you he had bronzed curly hair and a falconish sort of face, bronzed by the sea also, it's not for his sake, I assure you, but for the story; for it was the cause of a very curious coincidence.
As soon as I heard the heavy door close on him finally, I made a bolt for my shrimping-net and tam-o '- shanter and was just going to slip out, when I saw that my brother had left behind him one coin that lay gleaming on the long bench by the window.
It was a bronze coin, and the colour, combined with the exact curve of the Roman nose and something in the very lift of the long, wiry neck, made the head of Caesar on it the almost precise portrait of Philip Hawker.
Then I suddenly remembered Giles telling Philip of a coin that was like him, and Philip wishing he had it.
Perhaps you can fancy the wild, foolish thoughts with which my head went round; I felt as if I had had a gift from the fairies.
It seemed to me that if I could only run away with this, and give it to Philip like a wild sort of wedding-ring, it would be a bond between us for ever; I felt a thousand such things at once.
Then there yawned under me, like the pit, the enormous, awful notion of what I was doing; above all, the unbearable thought, which was like touching hot iron, of what Arthur would think of it.
A Carstairs a thief; and a thief of the Carstairs treasure!
I believe my brother could see me burned like a witch for such a thing, But then, the very thought of such fanatical cruelty heightened my old hatred of his dingy old antiquarian fussiness and my longing for the youth and liberty that called to me from the sea.
Outside was strong sunlight with a wind; and a yellow head of some broom or gorse in the garden rapped against the glass of the window.
I thought of that living and growing gold calling to me from all the heaths of the world-and then of that dead, dull gold and bronze and brass of my brother's growing dustier and dustier as life went by.
Nature and the Carstairs Collection had come to grips at last.
As I ran down the streets to the sea, the coin clenched tight in my fist, I felt all the Roman Empire on my back as well as the Carstairs pedigree.
It was not only the old lion argent that was roaring in my ear, but all the eagles of the Caesars seemed flapping and screaming in pursuit of me.
And yet my heart rose higher and higher like a child's kite, until I came over the loose, dry sand-hills and to the flat, wet sands, where Philip stood already up to his ankles in the shallow shining water, some hundred yards out to sea.
There was a great red sunset; and the long stretch of low water, hardly rising over the ankle for half a mile, was like a lake of ruby flame.
It was not till I had torn off my shoes and stockings and waded to where he stood, which was well away from the dry land, that I turned and looked round.
We were quite alone in a circle of sea-water and wet sand, and I gave him the head of Caesar.
I must have felt immediately after that it was a mere leap of unreasonable nerves; for the man was only a dark dot in the distance, and I could only just see that he was standing quite still and gazing, with his head a little on one side.
There was no earthly logical evidence that he was looking at me; he might have been looking at a ship, or the sunset, or the sea-gulls, or at any of the people who still strayed here and there on the shore between us.
Nevertheless, whatever my start sprang from was prophetic; for, as I gazed, he started walking briskly in a bee-line towards us across the wide wet sands.
As he drew nearer and nearer I saw that he was dark and bearded, and that his eyes were marked with dark spectacles.
He was dressed poorly but respectably in black, from the old black top hat on his head to the solid black boots on his feet.
In spite of these he walked straight into the sea without a flash of hesitation, and came on at me with the steadiness of a travelling bullet.
It was as if he had walked straight off a cliff and still marched steadily in mid-air.
It was as if a house had flown up into the sky or a man's head had fallen off.
He was only wetting his boots; but he seemed to be a demon disregarding a law of Nature.
If he had hesitated an instant at the water's edge it would have been nothing.
As it was, he seemed to look so much at me alone as not to notice the ocean.
Philip was some yards away with his back to me, bending over his net.
The stranger came on till he stood within two yards of me, the water washing half-way up to his knees.
Then he said, with a clearly modulated and rather mincing articulation: 'Would it discommode you to contribute elsewhere a coin with a somewhat different superscription?'
His tinted glasses were not really opaque, but of a blue kind common enough, nor were the eyes behind them shifty, but regarded me steadily.
His dark beard was not really long or wild --, but he looked rather hairy, because the beard began very high up in his face, just under the cheek-bones.
His complexion was neither sallow nor livid, but on the contrary rather clear and youthful; yet this gave a pink-and-white wax look which somehow (I don't know why) rather increased the horror.
The only oddity one could fix was that his nose, which was otherwise of a good shape, was just slightly turned sideways at the tip; as if, when it was soft, it had been tapped on one side with a toy hammer.
The thing was hardly a deformity; yet I cannot tell you what a living nightmare it was to me.
As he stood there in the sunset-stained water he affected me as some hellish sea-monster just risen roaring out of a sea like blood.
I don't know why a touch on the nose should affect my imagination so much.
I think it seemed as if he could move his nose like a finger.
And as if he had just that moment moved it.
How could he have found out?
I had stolen the thing suddenly and on impulse; I was certainly alone; for I always made sure of being unobserved when I slipped out to see Philip in this way.
I had not, to all appearance, been followed in the street; and if I had, they could not 'X-ray'the coin in my closed hand.
The man standing on the sand-hills could no more have seen what I gave Philip than shoot a fly in one eye, like the man in the fairy-tale.
He merely said gruffly to the man: 'You clear out of this.'
And, motioning me to follow, set off wading shoreward without paying further attention to him.
He stepped on to a stone breakwater that ran out from among the roots of the sand-hills, and so struck homeward, perhaps thinking our incubus would find it less easy to walk on such rough stones, green and slippery with seaweed, than we, who were young and used to it.
But my persecutor walked as daintily as he talked; and he still followed me, picking his way and picking his phrases.
I heard his delicate, detestable voice appealing to me over my shoulder, until at last, when we had crested the sand-hills, Philip's patience (which was by no means so conspicuous on most occasions) seemed to snap.
He turned suddenly, saying, 'Go back.
I can't talk to you now.'
And as the man hovered and opened his mouth, Philip struck him a buffet on it that sent him flying from the top of the tallest sand-hill to the bottom.
I saw him crawling out below, covered with sand.
Though as affectionate as ever, he still seemed cast down; and before I could ask him anything fully, he parted with me at his own gate, with two remarks that struck me as strange.
He said that, all things considered, I ought to put the coin back in the Collection; but that he himself would keep it 'for the present '.
And then he added quite suddenly and irrelevantly:, 'You know Giles is back from Australia?'
The door of the tavern opened and the gigantic shadow of the investigator Flambeau fell across the table.
Father Brown presented him to the lady in his own slight, persuasive style of speech, mentioning his knowledge and sympathy in such cases; and almost without knowing, the girl was soon reiterating her story to two listeners.
But Flambeau, as he bowed and sat down, handed the priest a small slip of paper.
Brown accepted it with some surprise and read on it: " Cab to Wagga Wagga, 379, Mafeking Avenue, Putney.
The girl was going on with her story.
The milk-can told me the servants were all out; for, of course, Arthur, browsing about in his brown dressing-gown in a brown study, would not hear or answer a bell.
Thus there was no one to help me in the house, except my brother, whose help must be my ruin.
In desperation I thrust two shillings into the horrid thing's hand, and told him to call again in a few days, when I had thought it out.
He went off sulking, but more sheepishly than I had expected-perhaps he had been shaken by his fall-and I watched the star of sand splashed on his back receding down the road with a horrid vindictive pleasure.
He turned a corner some six houses down.
I sat at the drawing-room window looking on to the garden, which still glowed with the last full evening light.
But I was too distracted and dreamy to look at the lawns and flower-pots and flower-beds with any concentration.
So I took the shock the more sharply because I'd seen it so slowly.
Oh, we've all read a lot about pale-faced phantoms in the dark; but this was more dreadful than anything of that kind could ever be.
Because, though he cast a long evening shadow, he still stood in warm sunlight.
And because his face was not pale, but had that waxen bloom still upon it that belongs to a barber's dummy.
He stood quite still, with his face towards me; and I can't tell you how horrid he looked among the tulips and all those tall, gaudy, almost hothouse-looking flowers.
It looked as if we'd stuck up a waxwork instead of a statue in the centre of our garden.
This renewed timidity on his part was so different from the impudence with which he had walked into the sea, that I felt vaguely comforted.
I fancied, perhaps, that he feared confronting Arthur more than I knew.
Anyhow, I settled down at last, and had a quiet dinner alone (for it was against the rules to disturb Arthur when he was rearranging the museum), and, my thoughts, a little released, fled to Philip and lost themselves, I suppose.
Anyhow, I was looking blankly, but rather pleasantly than otherwise, at another window, uncurtained, but by this time black as a slate with the final night-fall.
It seemed to me that something like a snail was on the outside of the window-pane.
But when I stared harder, it was more like a man's thumb pressed on the pane; it had that curled look that a thumb has.
With my fear and courage re-awakened together, I rushed at the window and then recoiled with a strangled scream that any man but Arthur must have heard.
It was the tip of a crooked nose, crushed against the glass; it looked white with the pressure; and the staring face and eyes behind it were at first invisible and afterwards grey like a ghost.
I slammed the shutters together somehow, rushed up to my room and locked myself in.
But, even as I passed, I could swear I saw a second black window with something on it that was like a snail.
If the thing was crawling close all around the house like a cat, it might have purposes worse even than blackmail.
My brother might cast me out and curse me for ever, but he was a gentleman, and would defend me on the spot.
After ten minutes'curious thinking, I went down, knocked on the door and then went in: to see the last and worst sight.
But the man with the crooked nose was sitting waiting for his return, with his hat still insolently on his head, and actually reading one of my brother's books under my brother's lamp.
His face was composed and occupied, but his nose-tip still had the air of being the most mobile part of his face, as if it had just turned from left to right like an elephant's proboscis.
I had thought him poisonous enough while he was pursuing and watching me; but I think his unconsciousness of my presence was more frightful still.
What I did next does matter: I gave him all the money I had, including a good deal in paper which, though it was mine, I dare say I had no right to touch.
He went off at last, with hateful, tactful regrets all in long words; and I sat down, feeling ruined in every sense.
And yet I was saved that very night by a pure accident.
Arthur had gone off suddenly to London, as he so often did, for bargains; and returned, late but radiant, having nearly secured a treasure that was an added splendour even to the family Collection.
He was so resplendent that I was almost emboldened to confess the abstraction of the lesser gem --, but he bore down all other topics with his over-powering projects.
Because the bargain might still misfire any moment, he insisted on my packing at once and going up with him to lodgings he had already taken in Fulham, to be near the curio-shop in question.
Thus in spite of myself, I fled from my foe almost in the dead of night-but from Philip also... My brother was often at the South Kensington Museum, and, in order to make some sort of secondary life for myself, I paid for a few lessons at the Art Schools.
I was coming back from them this evening, when I saw the abomination of desolation walking alive down the long straight street and the rest is as this gentleman has said.
I don't deserve to be helped; and I don't question or complain of my punishment; it is just, it ought to have happened.
But I still question, with bursting brains, how it can have happened.
Am I punished by miracle?
or how can anyone but Philip and myself know I gave him a tiny coin in the middle of the sea?
The girl looked at him, and then rose and put her gloves on.
That night the detective and the priest were still talking of the matter as they drew near the Fulham house, a tenement strangely mean even for a temporary residence of the Carstairs family.
But I can't see how he can come into the thing by any process of thought, unless...
asked his companion patiently.
Flambeau lowered his voice.
The Australian chap did know that Hawker wanted the coin.
But I can't see how on earth he could know that Hawker had got it, unless Hawker signalled to him or his representative across the shore.
went on Flambeau eagerly.
If he'd struck amid rocks and sea, he might have hurt his ally.
It lies between few people, but at least three.
After a long ruminant pause, the priest said: " You miss a logical step.
Three persons are needed as ideas.
Only two are needed as agents.
Suppose a wife became a rigid teetotaller in order to frighten her husband into concealing his pub-frequenting, and then wrote him blackmailing letters in another hand, threatening to tell his wife!
Suppose a father forbade a son to gamble and then, following him in a good disguise, threatened the boy with his own sham paternal strictness!
Suppose-but, here we are, my friend.
cried Flambeau; " you don't mean --
An active figure ran down the steps of the house and showed under the golden lamplight the unmistakable head that resembled the Roman coin.
You see, I rather guess you have guessed it all yourself.
Taking a latchkey from the girl and the coin from Hawker, Flambeau let himself and his friend into the empty house and passed into the outer parlour.
It was empty of all occupants but one.
The man whom Father Brown had seen pass the tavern was standing against the wall as if at bay; unchanged, save that he had taken off his black coat and was wearing a brown dressing-gown.
And he handed it to the man with the nose.
The man changed colour so horribly that the crooked nose stood out on his face like a separate and comic thing.
He spoke, nevertheless, with a sort of despairing dignity.
And he turned suddenly and strode into an inner room, slamming the door.
shouted Father Brown, bounding and half falling over a chair; and, after a wrench or two, Flambeau had the door open.
In dead silence Flambeau strode across and telephoned for doctor and police.
An empty medicine bottle lay on the floor.
Across the table the body of the man in the brown dressing-gown lay amid his burst and gaping brown-paper parcels; out of which poured and rolled, not Roman, but very modern English coins.
The priest held up the bronze head of Caesar.
After a silence he went on, with more than common gentleness: " It was a cruel will his wicked father made, and you see he did resent it a little.
He hated the Roman money he had, and grew fonder of the real money denied him.
He not only sold the Collection bit by bit, but sank bit by bit to the basest ways of making money-even to blackmailing his own family in a disguise.
He blackmailed his brother from Australia for his little forgotten crime (that is why he took the cab to Wagga Wagga in Putney), he blackmailed his sister for the theft he alone could have noticed.
And that, by the way, is why she had that supernatural guess when he was away on the sand-dunes.
Mere figure and gait, however distant, are more likely to remind us of somebody than a well-made-up face quite close.
There was another silence.
asked Father Brown, in the same strange, indulgent tone.
What is wrong, except... thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image; thou shalt not bow down to them nor serve them, for I... but we must go and see how the poor young people are getting on.
MR EDWARD NUTT, the industrious editor of the Daily Reformer, sat at his desk, opening letters and marking proofs to the merry tune of a typewriter, worked by a vigorous young lady.
He was a stoutish, fair man, in his shirt-sleeves; his movements were resolute, his mouth firm and his tones final; but his round, rather babyish blue eyes had a bewildered and even wistful look that rather contradicted all this.
Nor indeed was the expression altogether misleading.
It might truly be said of him, as for many journalists in authority, that his most familiar emotion was one of continuous fear; fear of libel actions, fear of lost advertisements, fear of misprints, fear of the sack.
A letter from one of these lay immediately before him, and rapid and resolute as he was, he seemed almost to hesitate before opening it.
He took up a strip of proof instead, ran down it with a blue eye, and a blue pencil, altered the word " adultery " to the word " impropriety," and the word " Jew " to the word " Alien," rang a bell and sent it flying upstairs.
Then, with a more thoughtful eye, he ripped open the letter from his more distinguished contributor, which bore a postmark of Devonshire, and read as follows:
DEAR NUTT- As I see you're working Spooks and Dooks at the same time, what about an article on that rum business of the Eyres of Exmoor; or as the old women call it down here, the Devil's Ear of Eyre?
The head of the family, you know, is the Duke of Exmoor; he is one of the few really stiff old Tory aristocrats left, a sound old crusted tyrant it is quite in our line to make trouble about.
And I think I'm on the track of a story that will make trouble.
Of course I don't believe in the old legend about James I; and as for you, you don't believe in anything, not even in journalism.
The legend, you'll probably remember, was about the blackest business in English history-the poisoning of Overbury by that witch's cat Frances Howard, and the quite mysterious terror which forced the King to pardon the murderers.
There was a lot of alleged witchcraft mixed up with it; and the story goes that a man-servant listening at the keyhole heard the truth in a talk between the King and Carr; and the bodily ear with which he heard grew large and monstrous as by magic, so awful was the secret.
And though he had to be loaded with lands and gold and made an ancestor of dukes, the elf-shaped ear is still recurrent in the family.
Well, you don't believe in black magic; and if you did, you couldn't use it for copy.
If a miracle happened in your office, you'd have to hush it up, now so many bishops are agnostics.
But that is not the point The point is that there really is something queer about Exmoor and his family; something quite natural, I dare say, but quite abnormal.
And the Ear is in it somehow, I fancy; either a symbol or a delusion or disease or something.
Another tradition says that Cavaliers just after James I began to wear their hair long only to cover the ear of the first Lord Exmoor.
This also is no doubt fanciful.
The reason I point it out to you is this: It seems to me that we make a mistake in attacking aristocracy entirely for its champagne and diamonds.
Most men rather admire the nobs for having a good time, but I think we surrender too much when we admit that aristocracy has made even the aristocrats happy.
I suggest a series of articles pointing out how dreary, how inhuman, how downright diabolist, is the very smell and atmosphere of some of these great houses.
There are plenty of instances; but you couldn't begin with a better one than the Ear of the Eyres.
By the end of the week I think I can get you the truth about it- Yours ever, FRANCIS FINN.
Mr Nutt reflected a moment, staring at his left boot; then he called out in a strong, loud and entirely lifeless voice, in which every syllable sounded alike: " Miss Barlow, take down a letter to Mr Finn, please.
DEAR FINN- I think it would do; copy should reach us second post Saturday- Yours, E. NUTT.
This elaborate epistle he articulated as if it were all one word; and Miss Barlow rattled it down as if it were all one word.
Then he took up another strip of proof and a blue pencil, and altered the word " supernatural " to the word " marvellous ", and the expression " shoot down " to the expression " repress ".
In such happy, healthful activities did Mr Nutt disport himself, until the ensuing Saturday found him at the same desk, dictating to the same typist, and using the same blue pencil on the first instalment of Mr Finn's revelations.
The opening was a sound piece of slashing invective about the evil secrets of princes, and despair in the high places of the earth.
Then followed the legend of the Ear, amplified from Finn's first letter, and then the substance of his later discoveries, as follows:
I know it is the practice of journalists to put the end of the story at the beginning and call it a headline.
I know that journalism largely consists in saying " Lord Jones Dead " to people who never knew that Lord Jones was alive.
Your present correspondent thinks that this, like many other journalistic customs, is bad journalism; and that the Daily Reformer has to set a better example in such things.
He proposes to tell his story as it occurred, step by step.
He will use the real names of the parties, who in most cases are ready to confirm his testimony.
As for the headlines, the sensational proclamations-they will come at the end.
I was walking along a public path that threads through a private Devonshire orchard and seems to point towards Devonshire cider, when I came suddenly upon just such a place as the path suggested.
It was a long, low inn, consisting really of a cottage and two barns; thatched all over with the thatch that looks like brown and grey hair grown before history.
But outside the door was a sign which called it the Blue Dragon; and under the sign was one of those long rustic tables that used to stand outside most of the free English inns, before teetotallers and brewers between them destroyed freedom.
And at this table sat three gentlemen, who might have lived a hundred years ago.
Now that I know them all better, there is no difficulty about disentangling the impressions; but just then they looked like three very solid ghosts.
The dominant figure, both because he was bigger in all three dimensions, and because he sat centrally in the length of the table, facing me, was a tall, fat man dressed completely in black, with a rubicund, even apoplectic visage, but a rather bald and rather bothered brow.
Looking at him again, more strictly, I could not exactly say what it was that gave me the sense of antiquity, except the antique cut of his white clerical necktie and the barred wrinkles across his brow.
It was only when I saw his broad curved hat lying on the table beside him that I realized why I connected him with anything ancient.
He was a Roman Catholic priest.
Perhaps the third man, at the other end of the table, had really more to do with it than the rest, though he was both slighter in physical presence and more inconsiderate in his dress.
The unobtrusive yet unusual colour was all the more notable because his hair was almost unnaturally healthy and curling, and he wore it full.
But, after all analysis, I incline to think that what gave me my first old-fashioned impression was simply a set of tall, old-fashioned wine-glasses, one or two lemons and two churchwarden pipes.
And also, perhaps, the old-world errand on which I had come.
Being a hardened reporter, and it being apparently a public inn, I did not need to summon much of my impudence to sit down at the long table and order some cider.
The big man in black seemed very learned, especially about local antiquities; the small man in black, though he talked much less, surprised me with a yet wider culture.
So we got on very well together; but the third man, the old gentleman in the tight pantaloons, seemed rather distant and haughty, until I slid into the subject of the Duke of Exmoor and his ancestry.
I thought the subject seemed to embarrass the other two a little; but it broke the spell of the third man's silence most successfully.
Some of the tales, indeed, are not fit for public print --, such as the story of the Scarlet Nuns, the abominable story of the Spotted Dog, or the thing that was done in the quarry.
And all this red roll of impieties came from his thin, genteel lips rather primly than otherwise, as he sat sipping the wine out of his tall, thin glass.
I could see that the big man opposite me was trying, if anything, to stop him; but he evidently held the old gentleman in considerable respect, and could not venture to do so at all abruptly.
And the little priest at the other end of the-table, though free from any such air of embarrassment, looked steadily at the table, and seemed to listen to the recital with great pain-as well as he might.
He looked at me a moment, his lips still prim, but whitening and tightening; then he deliberately broke his long pipe and glass on the table and stood up, the very picture of a perfect gentleman with the framing temper of a fiend.
The curse of the Eyres of old has lain heavy on this country, and many have suffered from it.
They know there are none who have suffered from it as I have.
And with that he crushed a piece of the fallen glass under his heel, and strode away among the green twilight of the twinkling apple-trees.
The big man in black was staring at me with the wild air of a baffled bull; he did not at first seem to take it in.
Then he said at last, " Don't you know who he is?
I reaffirmed my ignorance, and there was another silence; then the little priest said, still looking at the table, " That is the Duke of Exmoor.
Then, before I could collect my scattered senses, he added equally quietly, but with an air of regularizing things: " My friend here is Doctor Mull, the Duke's librarian.
Then he added, with some irrelevance, " That's why he wears a wig.
It was a few moments before his meaning dawned on me.
I've sometimes thought it was a wild version of one of those mutilation stories.
They used to crop criminals'ears in the sixteenth century.
The big librarian had buried his big bald brow in his big red hands, like a man trying to think out his duty.
Understand, I've no reason to defend him, or even keep faith with him.
He has been a tyrant to me as to everybody else.
Don't fancy because you see him sitting here that he isn't a great lord in the worst sense of the word.
He would fetch a man a mile to ring a bell a yard off-if it would summon another man three miles to fetch a matchbox three yards off.
He must have a footman to carry his walking-stick; a body servant to hold up his opera-glasses --
The librarian turned to him and seemed to forget my presence; he was strongly moved and, I think, a little heated with wine.
He lets the whole world do everything for him-except dress him.
And that he insists on doing in a literal solitude like a desert.
Anybody is kicked out of the house without a character who is so much as found near his dressing-room door.,
Gentlemen, the Duke does really feel the bitterness about the curse that he uttered just now.
He does, with sincere shame and terror, hide under that purple wig something he thinks it would blast the sons of man to see.
I know it is so; and I know it is not a mere natural disfigurement, like a criminal mutilation, or a hereditary disproportion in the features.
I know it is worse than that; because a man told me who was present at a scene that no man could invent, where a stronger man than any of us tried to defy the secret, and was scared away from it.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Mull went on in oblivion of me, speaking out of the cavern of his hands.
Didn't you ever hear of the time when he very nearly lost all the estates?
The priest shook his head; and the librarian proceeded to tell the tale as he had heard it from his predecessor in the same post, who had been his patron and instructor, and whom he seemed to trust implicitly.
Up to a certain point it was a common enough tale of the decline of a great family's fortunes-the tale of a family lawyer.
His lawyer, however, had the sense to cheat honestly, if the expression explains itself.
Instead of using funds he held in trust, he took advantage of the Duke's carelessness to put the family in a financial hole, in which it might be necessary for the Duke to let him hold them in reality.
The lawyer's name was Isaac Green, but the Duke always called him Elisha; presumably in reference to the fact that he was quite bald, though certainly not more than thirty.
He had risen very rapidly, but from very dirty beginnings; being first a " nark " or informer, and then a money-lender: but as solicitor to the Eyres he had the sense, as I say, to keep technically straight until he was ready to deal the final blow.
The blow fell at dinner; and the old librarian said he should never forget the very look of the lampshades and the decanters, as the little lawyer, with a steady smile, proposed to the great landlord that they should halve the estates between them.
The sequel certainly could not be overlooked; for the Duke, in dead silence, smashed a decanter on the man's bald head as suddenly as I had seen him smash the glass that day in the orchard.
It left a red triangular scar on the scalp, and the lawyer's eyes altered, but not his smile.
He rose tottering to his feet, and struck back as such men do strike.
The law will give it to me.
Exmoor, it seems, was white as ashes, but his eyes still blazed.
because it would mean the crack of doom for me, and if you take it I shall take off my wig... Why, you pitiful plucked fowl, anyone can see your bare head.
But no man shall see mine and live.
Well, you may say what you like and make it mean what you like.
Now Dr Mull told his story with rather wild theatrical gestures, and with a passion I think at least partisan.
I was quite conscious of the possibility that the whole was the extravagance of an old braggart and gossip.
But before I end this half of my discoveries, I think it due to Dr Mull to record that my two first inquiries have confirmed his story.
I learned from an old apothecary in the village that there was a bald man in evening dress, giving the name of Green, who came to him one night to have a three-cornered cut on his forehead plastered.
And I learnt from the legal records and old newspapers that there was a lawsuit threatened, and at least begun, by one Green against the Duke of Exmoor.
Mr Nutt, of the Daily Reformer, wrote some highly incongruous words across the top of the copy, made some highly mysterious marks down the side of it, and called to Miss Barlow in the same loud, monotonous voice: " Take down a letter to Mr Finn.
DEAR FINN- Your copy will do, but I have had to headline it a bit; and our public would never stand a Romanist priest in the story-you must keep your eye on the suburbs.
I've altered him to Mr Brown, a Spiritualist.
A day or two afterward found the active and judicious editor examining, with blue eyes that seemed to grow rounder and rounder, the second instalment of Mr Finn's tale of mysteries in high life.
I have made an astounding discovery.
I freely confess it is quite different from anything I expected to discover, and will give a much more practical shock to the public.
I venture to say, without any vanity, that the words I now write will be read all over Europe, and certainly all over America and the Colonies.
And yet I heard all I have to tell before I left this same little wooden table in this same little wood of apple-trees.
I owe it all to the small priest Brown; he is an extraordinary man.
The big librarian had left the table, perhaps ashamed of his long tongue, perhaps anxious about the storm in which his mysterious master had vanished: anyway, he betook himself heavily in the Duke's tracks through the trees.
Father Brown had picked up one of the lemons and was eyeing it with an odd pleasure.
But if he wants to use hair, why doesn't he make it look like hair?
There never was hair of that colour in this world.
It looks more like a sunset-cloud coming through the wood.
Why doesn't he conceal the family curse better, if he's really so ashamed of it?
It's because he isn't ashamed of it.
I don't suggest you're either more snobbish or more morbid than the rest of us: but don't you feel in a vague way that a genuine old family curse is rather a fine thing to have?
Would you be ashamed, wouldn't you be a little proud, if the heir of the Glamis horror called you his friend?
or if Byron's family had confided, to you only, the evil adventures of their race?
Don't be too hard on the aristocrats themselves if their heads are as weak as ours would be, and they are snobs about their own sorrows.
I cried; " and that's true enough.
My own mother's family had a banshee; and, now I come to think of it, it has comforted me in many a cold hour.
Why should he show every stranger over such a Chamber of Horrors unless he is proud of it?
He doesn't conceal his wig, he doesn't conceal his blood, he doesn't conceal his family curse, he doesn't conceal the family crimes-but --
The little man's voice changed so suddenly, he shut his hand so sharply, and his eyes so rapidly grew rounder and brighter like a waking owl's, that it had all the abruptness of a small explosion on the table.
It somehow completed the thrill of my fanciful nerves that at that instant the Duke appeared again silently among the glimmering trees, with his soft foot and sunset-hued hair, coming round the corner of the house in company with his librarian.
Before he came within earshot, Father Brown had added quite composedly, " Why does he really hide the secret of what he does with the purple wig?
Because it isn't the sort of secret we suppose.
The Duke came round the corner and resumed his seat at the head of the table with all his native dignity.
The embarrassment of the librarian left him hovering on his hind legs, like a huge bear.
The Duke addressed the priest with great seriousness.
I no longer profess an observance of the religion of my fathers; but for their sakes, and for the sake of the days when we met before, I am very willing to hear you.
But I presume you would rather be heard in private.
Whatever I retain of the gentleman made me stand up.
Whatever I have attained of the journalist made me stand still.
Before this paralysis could pass, the priest had made a momentarily detaining motion.
All over this country I have found hundreds, even of my own faith and flock, whose imaginations are poisoned by the spell which I implore you to break.
I wish we could have all Devonshire here to see you do it.
asked the Duke, arching his eyebrows.
The Duke's face did not move; but he looked at his petitioner with a glassy stare which was the most awful expression I have ever seen on a human face.
I could see the librarian's great legs wavering under him like the shadows of stems in a pool; and I could not banish from my own brain the fancy that the trees all around us were filling softly in the silence with devils instead of birds.
If I gave you the faintest hint of the load of horror I have to bear alone, you would lie shrieking at these feet of mine and begging to know no more.
I will spare you the hint.
You shall not spell the first letter of what is written on the altar of the Unknown God.
The true God was made flesh and dwelt among us.
And I say to you, wherever you find men ruled merely by mystery, it is the mystery of iniquity.
If the devil tells you something is too fearful to look at, look at it.
If he says something is too terrible to hear, hear it.
If you think some truth unbearable, bear it.
I entreat your Grace to end this nightmare now and here at this table.
You would have an instant to know the great Nothing before you died.
I was leaning over the table in ungovernable excitement; in listening to this extraordinary duel half a thought had come into my head.
Take off that wig or I will knock it off.
I suppose I can be prosecuted for assault, but I am very glad I did it.
When he said, in the same voice of stone, " I refuse," I simply sprang on him.
For three long instants he strained against me as if he had all hell to help him; but I forced his head until the hairy cap fell off it.
I admit that, whilst wrestling, I shut my eyes as it fell.
I was awakened by a cry from Mull, who was also by this time at the Duke's side.
His head and mine were both bending over the bald head of the wigless Duke.
Then the silence was snapped by the librarian exclaiming: " What can it mean?
Why, the man had nothing to hide.
His ears are just like everybody else's.
The priest walked straight up to him, but strangely enough did not even glance at his ears.
He stared with an almost comical seriousness at his bald forehead, and pointed to a three-cornered cicatrice, long healed, but still discernible.
he said politely, " and he did get the whole estate after all.
And now let me tell the readers of the Daily Reformer what I think the most remarkable thing in the whole affair.
This transformation scene, which will seem to you as wild and purple as a Persian fairy-tale, has been (except for my technical assault) strictly legal and constitutional from its first beginnings.
This man with the odd scar and the ordinary ears is not an impostor.
Though (in one sense) he wears another man's wig and claims another man's ear, he has not stolen another man's coronet.
He really is the one and only Duke of Exmoor.
The old Duke really had a slight malformation of the ear, which really was more or less hereditary.
He really was morbid about it; and it is likely enough that he did invoke it as a kind of curse in the violent scene (which undoubtedly happened) in which he struck Green with the decanter.
But the contest ended very differently.
Green pressed his claim and got the estates; the dispossessed nobleman shot himself and died without issue.
After a decent interval the beautiful English Government revived the " extinct " peerage of Exmoor, and bestowed it, as is usual, on the most important person, the person who had got the property.
This man used the old feudal fables-properly, in his snobbish soul, really envied and admired them.
So that thousands of poor English people trembled before a mysterious chieftain with an ancient destiny and a diadem of evil stars-when they are really trembling before a guttersnipe who was a pettifogger and a pawnbroker not twelve years ago.
I think it very typical of the real case against our aristocracy as it is, and as it will be till God sends us braver men.
Mr Nutt put down the manuscript and called out with unusual sharpness: " Miss Barlow, please take down a letter to Mr Finn.
DEAR FINN- You must be mad; we can't touch this.
I wanted vampires and the bad old days and aristocracy hand-in-hand with superstition.
They like that But you must know the Exmoors would never forgive this.
And what would our people say then, I should like to know!
Why, Sir Simon is one of Exmoor's greatest pals; and it would ruin that cousin of the Eyres that's standing for us at Bradford.
Besides, old Soap-Suds was sick enough at not getting his peerage last year; he'd sack me by wire if I lost him it with such lunacy as this.
He's doing us some rattling articles on " The Heel of the Norman.
And how can he write about Normans if the man's only a solicitor?
Do be reasonable- Yours, E. NUTT.
As Miss Barlow rattled away cheerfully, he crumpled up the copy and tossed it into the waste-paper basket; but not before he had, automatically and by force of habit, altered the word " God " to the word " circumstances.
FATHER BROWN was in no mood for adventures.
He had lately fallen ill with over-work, and when he began to recover, his friend Flambeau had taken him on a cruise in a small yacht with Sir Cecil Fanshaw, a young Cornish squire and an enthusiast for Cornish coast scenery.
But Brown was still rather weak; he was no very happy sailor; and though he was never of the sort that either grumbles or breaks down, his spirits did not rise above patience and civility.
When the other two men praised the ragged violet sunset or the ragged volcanic crags, he agreed with them.
When Flambeau pointed out a rock shaped like a dragon, he looked at it and thought it very like a dragon.
When Fanshaw more excitedly indicated a rock that was like Merlin, he looked at it, and signified assent.
When Flambeau asked whether this rocky gate of the twisted river was not the gate of Fairyland, he said " Yes.
He heard the most important things and the most trivial with the same tasteless absorption.
He heard that the coast was death to all but careful seamen; he also heard that the ship's cat was asleep.
He heard that Fanshaw couldn't find his cigar-holder anywhere; he also heard the pilot deliver the oracle " Both eyes bright, she's all right; one eye winks, down she sinks.
He heard Flambeau say to Fanshaw that no doubt this meant the pilot must keep both eyes open and be spry.
He heard Fanshaw add that his country was full of such quaint fables and idioms; it was the very home of romance; he even pitted this part of Cornwall against Devonshire, as a claimant to the laurels of Elizabethan seamanship.
According to him there had been captains among these coves and islets compared with whom Drake was practically a landsman.
He heard Flambeau laugh, and ask if, perhaps, the adventurous title of " Westward Ho!
only meant that all Devonshire men wished they were living in Cornwall.
This Cecil Fanshaw was, in person, of the kind that commonly urges such crude but pleasing enthusiasms; a very young man, light-haired, high-coloured, with an eager profile; with a boyish bravado of spirits, but an almost girlish delicacy of tint and type.
The big shoulders, black brows and black mousquetaire swagger of Flambeau were a great contrast.
All these trivialities Brown heard and saw; but heard them as a tired man hears a tune in the railway wheels, or saw them as a sick man sees the pattern of his wall-paper.
No one can calculate the turns of mood in convalescence: but Father Brown's depression must have had a great deal to do with his mere unfamiliarity with the sea.
For as the river mouth narrowed like the neck of a bottle, and the water grew calmer and the air warmer and more earthly, he seemed to wake up and take notice like a baby.
They had reached that phase just after sunset when air and water both look bright, but earth and all its growing things look almost black by comparison.
About this particular evening, however, there was something exceptional.
It was one of those rare atmospheres in which a smoked-glass slide seems to have been slid away from between us and Nature; so that even dark colours on that day look more gorgeous than bright colours on cloudier days.
The trampled earth of the river-banks and the peaty stain in the pools did not look drab but glowing umber, and the dark woods astir in the breeze did not look, as usual, dim blue with mere depth of distance, but more like wind-tumbled masses of some vivid violet blossom.
This magic clearness and intensity in the colours was further forced on Brown's slowly reviving senses by something romantic and even secret in the very form of the landscape.
If Father Brown ever attached any importance to either of these, he certainly forgot them at the next turn of the river which brought in sight a singular object.
The water seemed to widen and split, being cloven by the dark wedge of a fish-shaped and wooded islet.
With the rate at which they went, the islet seemed to swim towards them like a ship; a ship with a very high prow-or, to speak more strictly, a very high funnel.
For at the extreme point nearest them stood up an odd-looking building, unlike anything they could remember or connect with any purpose.
It was not specially high, but it was too high for its breadth to be called anything but a tower.
Yet it appeared to be built entirely of wood, and that in a most unequal and eccentric way.
Some of the planks and beams were of good, seasoned oak; some of such wood cut raw and recent; some again of white pinewood, and a great deal more of the same sort of wood painted black with tar.
These black beams were set crooked or crisscross at all kinds of angles, giving the whole a most patchy and puzzling appearance.
There were one or two windows, which appeared to be coloured and leaded in an old-fashioned but more elaborate style.
The travellers looked at it with that paradoxical feeling we have when something reminds us of something, and yet we are certain it is something very different.
Father Brown, even when he was mystified, was clever in analysing his own mystification.
And he found himself reflecting that the oddity seemed to consist in a particular shape cut out in an incongruous material; as if one saw a top-hat made of tin, or a frock-coat cut out of tartan.
He was sure he had seen timbers of different tints arranged like that somewhere, but never in such architectural proportions.
The next moment a glimpse through the dark trees told him all he wanted to know and he laughed.
Through a gap in the foliage there appeared for a moment one of those old wooden houses, faced with black beams, which are still to be found here and there in England, but which most of us see imitated in some show called " Old London " or " Shakespeare's England '.
It was in view only long enough for the priest to see that, however old-fashioned, it was a comfortable and well-kept country-house, with flower-beds in front of it.
It had none of the piebald and crazy look of the tower that seemed made out of its refuse.
said Flambeau, who was still staring at the tower.
Fanshaw's eyes were shining, and he spoke triumphantly.
you've not seen a place quite like this before, I fancy; that's why I've brought you here, my friend.
Now you shall see whether I exaggerate about the mariners of Cornwall.
This place belongs to Old Pendragon, whom we call the Admiral; though he retired before getting the rank.
The spirit of Raleigh and Hawkins is a memory with the Devon folk; it's a modern fact with the Pendragons.
If Queen Elizabeth were to rise from the grave and come up this river in a gilded barge, she would be received by the Admiral in a house exactly such as she was accustomed to, in every corner and casement, in every panel on the wall or plate on the table.
And she would find an English Captain still talking fiercely of fresh lands to be found in little ships, as much as if she had dined with Drake.
That Elizabethan domestic architecture is charming in its way; but it's against the very nature of it to break out into turrets.
It was built by the Pendragons in the very days of the Spanish wars; and though it's needed patching and even rebuilding for another reason, it's always been rebuilt in the old way.
King Arthur was here and Merlin and the fairies before him.
The story goes that Sir Peter Pendragon, who (I fear) had some of the faults of the pirates as well as the virtues of the sailor, was bringing home three Spanish gentlemen in honourable captivity, intending to escort them to Elizabeth's court.
But he was a man of flaming and tigerish temper, and coming to high words with one of them, he caught him by the throat and flung him by accident or design, into the sea.
As it happened the ship had already turned into the river mouth and was close to comparatively shallow water.
The third Spaniard sprang over the side of the ship, struck out for the shore, and was soon near enough to it to stand up to his waist in water.
With that he dived under the wave, and was either drowned or swam so long under water that no hair of his head was seen afterwards.
Indeed, the black-haired young lady was letting her canoe float slowly and silently past the strange islet; and was looking intently up at the strange tower, with a strong glow of curiosity on her oval and olive face.
As you may easily suppose, plenty of superstitions and scandals have followed in the track of the Spaniard's curse; and no doubt, as you would put it, any accident happening to this Cornish family would be connected with it by rural credulity.
asked Father Brown, as the girl in the canoe paddled off, without showing the least intention of extending her interest from the tower to the yacht, which Fanshaw had already caused to lie alongside the island.
I believe there's a family compact or something.
Well, here's the landing stage; let's come ashore and see the old boy.
They followed him on to the island, just under the tower, and Father Brown, whether from the mere touch of dry land, or the interest of something on the other bank of the river (which he stared at very hard for some seconds), seemed singularly improved in briskness.
They entered a wooded avenue between two fences of thin greyish wood, such as often enclose parks or gardens, and over the top of which the dark trees tossed to and fro like black and purple plumes upon the hearse of a giant.
The tower, as they left it behind, looked all the quainter, because such entrances are usually flanked by two towers; and this one looked lopsided.
But for this, the avenue had the usual appearance of the entrance to a gentleman's grounds; and, being so curved that the house was now out of sight, somehow looked a much larger park than any plantation on such an island could really be.
Father Brown was, perhaps, a little fanciful in his fatigue, but he almost thought the whole place must be growing larger, as things do in a nightmare.
Anyhow, a mystical monotony was the only character of their march, until Fanshaw suddenly stopped, and pointed to something sticking out through the grey fence-something that looked at first rather like the imprisoned horn of some beast.
Closer observation showed that it was a slightly curved blade of metal that shone faintly in the fading light.
Flambeau, who like all Frenchmen had been a soldier, bent over it and said in a startled voice: " Why, it's a sabre!
I believe I know the sort, heavy and curved, but shorter than the cavalry; they used to have them in artillery and the --
As he spoke the blade plucked itself out of the crack it had made and came down again with a more ponderous slash, splitting the fissiparous fence to the bottom with a rending noise.
Then it was pulled out again, flashed above the fence some feet further along, and again split it halfway down with the first stroke; and after waggling a little to extricate itself (accompanied with curses in the darkness) split it down to the ground with a second.
Then a kick of devilish energy sent the whole loosened square of thin wood flying into the pathway, and a great gap of dark coppice gaped in the paling.
Fanshaw peered into the dark opening and uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
he exclaimed, " do you-er-do you generally cut out a new front door whenever you want to go for a walk?
The voice in the gloom swore again, and then broke into a jolly laugh.
But I'll only carve another bit off the front door, and then come out and welcome you.
And sure enough, he heaved up his weapon once more, and, hacking twice, brought down another and similar strip of fence, making the opening about fourteen feet wide in all.
Then through this larger forest gateway he came out into the evening light, with a chip of grey wood sticking to his sword-blade.
He momentarily fulfilled all Fanshaw's fable of an old piratical Admiral; though the details seemed afterwards to decompose into accidents.
He wore an ordinary dark-blue jacket, with nothing special about the buttons, but the combination of it with white linen trousers somehow had a sailorish look.
He was tall and loose, and walked with a sort of swagger, which was not a sailor's roll, and yet somehow suggested it; and he held in his hand a short sabre which was like a navy cutlass, but about twice as big.
Under the bridge of the hat his eagle face looked eager, all the more because it was not only clean-shaven, but without eyebrows.
It seemed almost as if all the hair had come off his face from his thrusting it through a throng of elements.
His eyes were prominent and piercing.
His colour was curiously attractive, while partly tropical; it reminded one vaguely of a blood-orange.
That is, that while it was ruddy and sanguine, there was a yellow in it that was in no way sickly, but seemed rather to glow like gold apples of the Hesperides-Father Brown thought he had never seen a figure so expressive of all the romances about the countries of the Sun.
When Fanshaw had presented his two friends to their host he fell again into a tone of rallying the latter about his wreckage of the fence and his apparent rage of profanity.
The Admiral pooh-poohed it at first as a piece of necessary but annoying garden work; but at length the ring of real energy came back into his laughter, and he cried with a mixture of impatience and good humour:
So would you if your only pleasure was in cruising about to find some new Cannibal Islands, and you had to stick on this muddy little rockery in a sort of rustic pond.
When I remember how I've cut down a mile and a half of green poisonous jungle with an old cutlass half as sharp as this; and then remember I must stop here and chop this matchwood, because of some confounded old bargain scribbled in a family Bible, why, I --
He swung up the heavy steel again; and this time sundered the wall of wood from top to bottom at one stroke.
The semicircle of lawn in front of the house was varied by three circular garden beds, one of red tulips, a second of yellow tulips, and the third of some white, waxen-looking blossoms that the visitors did not know and presumed to be exotic.
A heavy, hairy and rather sullen-looking gardener was hanging up a heavy coil of garden hose.
Just outside the steps of the porch stood a little painted green garden table, as if someone had just had tea there.
The entrance was flanked with two of those half-featured lumps of stone with holes for eyes that are said to be South Sea idols; and on the brown oak beam across the doorway were some confused carvings that looked almost as barbaric.
As they passed indoors, the little cleric hopped suddenly on to the table, and standing on it peered unaffectedly through his spectacles at the mouldings in the oak.
Admiral Pendragon looked very much astonished, though not particularly annoyed; while Fanshaw was so amused with what looked like a performing pigmy on his little stand, that he could not control his laughter.
But Father Brown was not likely to notice either the laughter or the astonishment.
He was gazing at three carved symbols, which, though very worn and obscure, seemed still to convey some sense to him.
The first seemed to be the outline of some tower or other building, crowned with what looked like curly-pointed ribbons.
The second was clearer: an old Elizabethan galley with decorative waves beneath it, but interrupted in the middle by a curious jagged rock, which was either a fault in the wood or some conventional representation of the water coming in.
The third represented the upper half of a human figure, ending in an escalloped line like the waves; the face was rubbed and featureless, and both arms were held very stiffly up in the air.
Here he is holding up his arms and cursing in the sea; and here are the two curses: the wrecked ship and the burning of Pendragon Tower.
Pendragon shook his head with a kind of venerable amusement.
Might not that line through the ship be one of those parti-per-pale lines, indented, I think they call it?
And though the third thing isn't so very heraldic, it would be more heraldic to suppose it a tower crowned with laurel than with fire; and it looks just as like it.
Besides, it isn't the only old legend.
Fanshaw, here, who is fond of such things, will tell you there are other versions of the tale, and much more horrible ones.
One story credits my unfortunate ancestor with having had the Spaniard cut in two; and that will fit the pretty picture also.
Another obligingly credits our family with the possession of a tower full of snakes and explains those little, wriggly things in that way.
And a third theory supposes the crooked line on the ship to be a conventionalized thunderbolt; but that alone, if seriously examined, would show what a very little way these unhappy coincidences really go.
said Father Brown, and jumped down from the little table.
There was another silence in which they heard the continuous murmur of the river; then Fanshaw said, in a doubtful and perhaps disappointed tone: " Then you don't think there is anything in the tales of the tower in flames?
Someone saw a blaze hereabout, don't you know, as he walked home through a wood; someone keeping sheep on the uplands inland thought he saw a flame hovering over Pendragon Tower.
Well, a damp dab of mud like this confounded island seems the last place where one would think of fires.
asked Father Brown with a gentle suddenness, pointing to the woods on the left river-bank.
They were all thrown a little off their balance, and the more fanciful Fanshaw had even some difficulty in recovering his, as they saw a long, thin stream of blue smoke ascending silently into the end of the evening light.
Then Pendragon broke into a scornful laugh again.
he said; " they've been camping about here for about a week.
Gentlemen, you want your dinner," and he turned as if to enter the house.
But the antiquarian superstition in Fanshaw was still quivering, and he said hastily: " But, Admiral, what's that hissing noise quite near the island?
Almost as he spoke, the butler, a lean man in black, with very black hair and a very long, yellow face, appeared in the doorway and told him that dinner was served.
The dining-room was as nautical as the cabin of a ship; but its note was rather that of the modern than the Elizabethan captain.
There were, indeed, three antiquated cutlasses in a trophy over the fireplace, and one brown sixteenth-century map with Tritons and little ships dotted about a curly sea.
But the alien colour culminated in the fact that, besides the butler, the Admiral's only servants were two negroes, somewhat quaintly clad in tight uniforms of yellow.
The priest's instinctive trick of analysing his own impressions told him that the colour and the little neat coat-tails of these bipeds had suggested the word " Canary," and so by a mere pun connected them with southward travel.
Towards the end of the dinner they took their yellow clothes and black faces out of the room, leaving only the black clothes and yellow face of the butler.
Don't you really believe in the family story at all?
Then he said, without altering his tone.
I don't ask for curiosity, but really for my guidance and your convenience.
Have I made a bad shot if I guess you don't want these old things talked of before your butler?
The Admiral lifted the hairless arches over his eyes and exclaimed: " Well, I don't know where you got it, but the truth is I can't stand the fellow, though I've no excuse for discharging a family servant.
Fanshaw, with his fairy tales, would say my blood moved against men with that black, Spanish-looking hair.
Flambeau struck the table with his heavy fist.
he cried; " and so had that girl!
You won't understand, I suppose, unless I tell you the story.
You see, my father had two sons; I remained a bachelor, but my elder brother married, and had a son who became a sailor like all the rest of us, and will inherit the proper estate.
If all the Pendragons sailed about anyhow, he thought there would be too much chance of natural catastrophes to prove anything.
But if we went to sea one at a time in strict order of succession to the property, he thought it might show whether any connected fate followed the family as a family.
It was a silly notion, I think, and I quarrelled with my father pretty heartily; for I was an ambitious man and was left to the last, coming, by succession, after my own nephew.
My father, coming up this coast out of the Atlantic, was washed up on these Cornish rocks.
My brother's ship was sunk, no one knows where, on the voyage home from Tasmania.
His body was never found.
I tell you it was from perfectly natural mishap; lots of other people besides Pendragons were drowned; and both disasters are discussed in a normal way by navigators.
But, of course, it set this forest of superstition on fire; and men saw the flaming tower everywhere.
That's why I say it will be all right when Walter returns.
The girl he's engaged to was coming today; but I was so afraid of some chance delay frightening her that I wired her not to come till she heard from me.
But he's practically sure to be here some time tonight, and then it'll all end in smoke-tobacco smoke.
We'll crack that old lie when we crack a bottle of this wine.
I most sincerely beg your pardon ": for he had spilt a small spot of wine on the table-cloth.
After a pause the priest spoke again in his mild manner.
Let me, and my friends if they like, stop in that tower of yours just for tonight?
Do you know that in my business you're an exorcist almost before anything else?
Pendragon sprang to his feet and paced swiftly to and fro across the window, from which the face had instantly vanished.
You may call me an atheist.
Here he swung round and fixed Father Brown with a face of frightful concentration.
There is no curse in it at all.
But it seems to me you are not quite so easy about the flaming tower as you try to be.
Admiral Pendragon sat down again as abruptly as he had risen; but he sat quite still, and when he spoke again it was in a lower voice.
Some three hours afterwards Fanshaw, Flambeau and the priest were still dawdling about the garden in the dark; and it began to dawn on the other two that Father Brown had no intention of going to bed either in the tower or the house.
They followed him, laughing and half remonstrating; but he replied with the utmost solemnity, explaining to them, in a maddening little sermon, that one can always find some small occupation that is helpful to others.
He did not find a spud; but he found an old broom made of twigs, with which he began energetically to brush the fallen leaves off the grass.
And now," he added, suddenly slinging the broom away, " Let's go and water the flowers.
With the same mixed emotions they watched him uncoil some considerable lengths of the large garden hose, saying with an air of wistful discrimination: " The red tulips before the yellow, I think.
Look a bit dry, don't you think?
He turned the little tap on the instrument, and the water shot out straight and solid as a long rod of steel.
Father Brown stood ruefully contemplating the decapitated plant.
You should have seen me with the spud!
Talking of tools, you've got that swordstick, Flambeau, you always carry?
That's right; and Sir Cecil could have that sword the Admiral threw away by the fence here.
How grey everything looks!
Almost as he spoke the huge figure of the hairy gardener appeared on a higher ridge of the trenched and terraced lawn, hailing them with a brandished rake and a horribly bellowing voice.
He made a wavering half-turn of apology towards the gardener, with the hose still spouting in his hand.
The gardener caught the cold crash of the water full in his face like the crash of a cannon-ball; staggered, slipped and went sprawling with his boots in the air.
said Father Brown, looking round in a sort of wonder.
He stood with his head forward for a moment as if looking or listening; and then set off at a trot towards the tower, still trailing the hose behind him.
The tower was quite close, but its outline was curiously dim.
This story is going to end in smoke.
As he spoke a most beautiful rose-red light seemed to burst into blossom like a gigantic rose; but accompanied with a crackling and rattling noise that was like the laughter of devils.
Flambeau turned electrified eyes upon his friend, but Fanshaw only said rather absently: " Well, nobody can be killed, anyhow.
At the same instant the monstrous figure of the gardener with the streaming beard stood again on the green ridge against the sky, waving others to come on; but now waving not a rake but a cutlass.
Behind him came the two negroes, also with the old crooked cutlasses out of the trophy.
But in the blood-red glare, with their black faces and yellow figures, they looked like devils carrying instruments of torture.
In the dim garden behind them a distant voice was heard calling out brief directions.
When the priest heard the voice, a terrible change came over his countenance.
But he remained composed; and never took his eye off the patch of flame which had begun by spreading, but now seemed to shrink a little as it hissed under the torch of the long silver spear of water.
He kept his finger along the nozzle of the pipe to ensure the aim, and attended to no other business, knowing only by the noise and that semi-conscious corner of the eye, the exciting incidents that began to tumble themselves about the island garden.
He gave two brief directions to his friends.
One was: " Knock these fellows down somehow and tie them up, whoever they are; there's rope down by those faggots.
They want to take away my nice hose.
The other was: " As soon as you get a chance, call out to that canoeing girl; she's over on the bank with the gipsies.
Ask her if they could get some buckets across and fill them from the river.
Then he closed his mouth and continued to water the new red flower as ruthlessly as he had watered the red tulip.
He never turned his head to look at the strange fight that followed between the foes and friends of the mysterious fire.
He almost felt the island shake when Flambeau collided with the huge gardener; he merely imagined how it would whirl round them as they wrestled.
He heard the crashing fall; and his friend's gasp of triumph as he dashed on to the first negro; and the cries of both the blacks as Flambeau and Fanshaw bound them.
Flambeau's enormous strength more than redressed the odds in the fight, especially as the fourth man still hovered near the house, only a shadow and a voice.
He heard also the water broken by the paddles of a canoe; the girl's voice giving orders, the voices of gipsies answering and coming nearer, the plumping and sucking noise of empty buckets plunged into a full stream; and finally the sound of many feet around the fire.
But all this was less to him than the fact that the red rent, which had lately once more increased, had once more slightly diminished.
Then came a cry that very nearly made him turn his head.
Flambeau and Fanshaw, now reinforced by some of the gipsies, had rushed after the mysterious man by the house; and he heard from the other end of the garden the Frenchman's cry of horror and astonishment.
It was echoed by a howl not to be called human, as the being broke from their hold and ran along the garden.
Then, finding them closing in on every side, the figure sprang upon one of the higher river banks and disappeared with a splash into the dark and driving river.
He knew the use of a family legend.
The fire hissed and shrieked more and more, like a strangled thing, as it grew narrower and narrower under the flood from the pipe and buckets, but Father Brown still kept his eye on it as he went on speaking:
She might have seen something to interest her: the sign of the ship, or Mr Walter Pendragon coming home, and perhaps even the sign of the half-man, for though he is certainly safe by now, he may very well have waded ashore.
He has been within a shave of another shipwreck; and would never have escaped it, if the lady hadn't had the sense to suspect the old Admiral's telegram and come down to watch him.
Don't let's talk about the old Admiral.
Don't let's talk about anything.
It's enough to say that whenever this tower, with its pitch and resin-wood, really caught fire, the spark on the horizon always looked like the twin light to the coast light-house.
The wicked uncle of the legends very nearly got his estate after all.
Father Brown did not answer; indeed, he did not speak again, save for civilities, till they were all safe round a cigar-box in the cabin of the yacht.
But his fatigue had fallen on him once more, and he only started once, when Flambeau abruptly told him he had dropped cigar-ash on his trousers.
That's just the way I got my first faint suspicion about the chart.
Put the same feather with a ribbon and an artificial flower and everyone will think it's for a lady's hat.
Put the same feather with an ink-bottle, a book and a stack of writing-paper, and most men will swear they've seen a quill pen.
So you saw that map among tropic birds and shells and thought it was a map of Pacific Islands.
It was the map of this river.
But feeling horrible has nothing to do with not seeing things.
He received no answer: Father Brown was asleep.
IT was one of those chilly and empty afternoons in early winter, when the daylight is silver rather than gold and pewter rather than silver.
The line of the sea looked frozen in the very vividness of its violet-blue, like the vein of a frozen finger.
For miles and miles, forward and back, there was no breathing soul, save two pedestrians, walking at a brisk pace, though one had much longer legs and took much longer strides than the other.
It did not seem a very appropriate place or time for a holiday, but Father Brown had few holidays, and had to take them when he could, and he always preferred, if possible, to take them in company with his old friend Flambeau, ex-criminal and ex-detective.
The priest had had a fancy for visiting his old parish at Cobhole, and was going north-eastward along the coast.
After walking a mile or two farther, they found that the shore was beginning to be formally embanked, so as to form something like a parade; the ugly lamp-posts became less few and far between and more ornamental, though quite equally ugly.
Half a mile farther on Father Brown was puzzled first by little labyrinths of flowerless flower-pots, covered with the low, flat, quiet-coloured plants that look less like a garden than a tessellated pavement, between weak curly paths studded with seats with curly backs.
He faintly sniffed the atmosphere of a certain sort of seaside town that be did not specially care about, and, looking ahead along the parade by the sea, he saw something that put the matter beyond a doubt.
In the grey distance the big bandstand of a watering-place stood up like a giant mushroom with six legs.
They try to revive these places in the winter, but it never succeeds except with Brighton and the old ones.
This must be Seawood, I think-Lord Pooley's experiment; he had the Sicilian Singers down at Christmas, and there's talk about holding one of the great glove-fights here.
But they'll have to chuck the rotten place into the sea; it's as dreary as a lost railway-carriage.
They had come under the big bandstand, and the priest was looking up at it with a curiosity that had something rather odd about it, his head a little on one side, like a bird's.
It was the conventional, rather tawdry kind of erection for its purpose: a flattened dome or canopy, gilt here and there, and lifted on six slender pillars of painted wood, the whole being raised about five feet above the parade on a round wooden platform like a drum.
But there was something fantastic about the snow combined with something artificial about the gold that haunted Flambeau as well as his friend with some association he could not capture, but which he knew was at once artistic and alien.
It's like those fanciful Japanese prints, where the snow on the mountain looks like sugar, and the gilt on the pagodas is like gilt on gingerbread.
It looks just like a little pagan temple.
And with an agility hardly to be expected of him, he hopped up on to the raised platform.
Slight as was the difference of height, it gave in those level wastes a sense of seeing yet farther and farther across land and sea.
Inland the little wintry gardens faded into a confused grey copse; beyond that, in the distance, were long low barns of a lonely farmhouse, and beyond that nothing but the long East Anglian plains.
Seawards there was no sail or sign of life save a few seagulls: and even they looked like the last snowflakes, and seemed to float rather than fly.
Flambeau turned abruptly at an exclamation behind him.
It seemed to come from lower down than might have been expected, and to be addressed to his heels rather than his head.
He instantly held out his hand, but he could hardly help laughing at what he saw.
For some reason or other the platform had given way under Father Brown, and the unfortunate little man had dropped through to the level of the parade.
He was just tall enough, or short enough, for his head alone to stick out of the hole in the broken wood, looking like St John the Baptist's head on a charger.
The face wore a disconcerted expression, as did, perhaps, that of St John the Baptist.
In a moment he began to laugh a little.
But the little priest was looking rather curiously at the corners and edges of the wood alleged to be rotten, and there was a sort of trouble on his brow.
The priest was holding a splinter of the broken wood between his finger and thumb, and did not immediately reply.
At last he said thoughtfully: " Want to get out?
I rather think I want to get in.
And he dived into the darkness under the wooden floor so abruptly as to knock off his big curved clerical hat and leave it lying on the boards above, without any clerical head in it.
Flambeau looked once more inland and out to sea, and once more could see nothing but seas as wintry as the snow, and snows as level as the sea.
There came a scurrying noise behind him, and the little priest came scrambling out of the hole faster than he had fallen in.
His face was no longer disconcerted, but rather resolute, and, perhaps only through the reflections of the snow, a trifle paler than usual.
cried Flambeau, quite alarmed.
Father Brown did not answer.
He was staring, with a knot in his forehead, at the landscape; and he suddenly pointed at it.
Following his finger, Flambeau saw for the first time the corners of a building nearer than the farmhouse, but screened for the most part with a fringe of trees.
It was not a large building, and stood well back from the shore --, but a glint of ornament on it suggested that it was part of the same watering-place scheme of decoration as the bandstand, the little gardens and the curly-backed iron seats.
Father Brown jumped off the bandstand, his friend following; and as they walked in the direction indicated the trees fell away to right and left, and they saw a small, rather flashy hotel, such as is common in resorts-the hotel of the Saloon Bar rather than the Bar Parlour.
Almost the whole frontage was of gilt plaster and figured glass, and between that grey seascape and the grey, witch-like trees, its gimcrack quality had something spectral in its melancholy.
They both felt vaguely that if any food or drink were offered at such a hostelry, it would be the paste-board ham and empty mug of the pantomime.
In this, however, they were not altogether confirmed.
As they drew nearer and nearer to the place they saw in front of the buffet, which was apparently closed, one of the iron garden-seats with curly backs that had adorned the gardens, but much longer, running almost the whole length of the frontage.
Presumably, it was placed so that visitors might sit there and look at the sea, but one hardly expected to find anyone doing it in such weather.
Nevertheless, just in front of the extreme end of the iron seat stood a small round restaurant table, and on this stood a small bottle of Chablis and a plate of almonds and raisins.
Behind the table and on the seat sat a dark-haired young man, bareheaded, and gazing at the sea in a state of almost astonishing immobility.
But though he might have been a waxwork when they were within four yards of him, he jumped up like a jack-in-the-box when they came within three, and said in a deferential, though not undignified, manner: " Will you step inside, gentlemen?
I have no staff at present, but I can get you anything simple myself.
Flambeau did not understand the sherry, but he did not object to it in the least.
He could only say amiably: " Oh, thank you very much.
As I told you, I have no staff --" And he went towards the black windows of his shuttered and unlighted inn.
He was interrupted by a bellowing human voice that came out of the bowels of the uninhabited hotel.
It thundered some foreign name loudly but inaudibly, and the hotel proprietor moved more sharply towards it than he had done for Flambeau's sherry.
As instant evidence proved, the proprietor had told, then and after, nothing but the literal truth.
But both Flambeau and Father Brown have often confessed that, in all their (often outrageous) adventures, nothing had so chilled their blood as that voice of an ogre, sounding suddenly out of a silent and empty inn.
cried the proprietor hastily.
He will be starting presently.
And, sure enough, there appeared in the doorway a big white bulk with white cap and white apron, as befits a cook, but with the needless emphasis of a black face.
Flambeau had often heard that negroes made good cooks.
But somehow something in the contrast of colour and caste increased his surprise that the hotel proprietor should answer the call of the cook, and not the cook the call of the proprietor.
But he reflected that head cooks are proverbially arrogant; and, besides, the host had come back with the sherry, and that was the great thing.
We only met one man for miles.
The hotel proprietor shrugged his shoulders.
They are only interested in the sport, and will stop in hotels for the night only.
After all, it is hardly weather for basking on the shore.
He was a quiet, well-featured fellow, rather sallow; his dark clothes had nothing distinctive about them, except that his black necktie was worn rather high, like a stock, and secured by a gold pin with some grotesque head to it.
Nor was there anything notable in the face, except something that was probably a mere nervous trick-a habit of opening one eye more narrowly than the other, giving the impression that the other was larger, or was, perhaps, artificial.
The silence that ensued was broken by their host saying quietly: " Whereabouts did you meet the one man on your march?
Flambeau, who had sat on the long iron seat to finish his sherry, put it down and rose to his feet, staring at his friend in amazement.
He opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again.
As has been said, the hotel-keeper can be proved to have told the precise truth.
His phrase that the cook was starting presently was fulfilled to the letter, for the cook came out, pulling his gloves on, even as they spoke.
But he was a very different figure from the confused mass of white and black that had appeared for an instant in the doorway.
He was buttoned and buckled up to his bursting eyeballs in the most brilliant fashion.
A tall black hat was tilted on his broad black head-a hat of the sort that the French wit has compared to eight mirrors.
But somehow the black man was like the black hat.
He also was black, and yet his glossy skin flung back the light at eight angles or more.
It is needless to say that he wore white spats and a white slip inside his waistcoat.
The red flower stood up in his buttonhole aggressively, as if it had suddenly grown there.
And in the way he carried his cane in one hand and his cigar in the other there was a certain attitude-an attitude we must always remember when we talk of racial prejudices: something innocent and insolent-the cake walk.
It was fixed at the throat rather in the way that nurses fix children's comforters with a safety-pin.
Only this," added the priest, gazing placidly out to sea, " was not a safety-pin.
The man sitting on the long iron bench was also gazing placidly out to sea.
Now he was once more in repose.
Flambeau felt quite certain that one of his eyes was naturally larger than the other.
Both were now well opened, and he could almost fancy the left eye grew larger as he gazed.
The motionless man continued to gaze at the sea, and the eyes in his head might have belonged to two different men.
Then he made a movement of blinding swiftness.
Father Brown had his back to him, and in that flash might have fallen dead on his face.
Flambeau had no weapon, but his large brown hands were resting on the end of the long iron seat.
His shoulders abruptly altered their shape, and he heaved the whole huge thing high over his head, like a headsman's axe about to fall.
The mere height of the thing, as he held it vertical, looked like a long iron ladder by which he was inviting men to climb towards the stars.
But the long shadow, in the level evening light, looked like a giant brandishing the Eiffel Tower.
It was the shock of that shadow, before the shock of the iron crash, that made the stranger quail and dodge, and then dart into his inn, leaving the flat and shining dagger he had dropped exactly where it had fallen.
He caught the little priest by the elbow and ran him down a grey perspective of barren back garden, at the end of which there was a closed back garden door.
Flambeau bent over it an instant in violent silence, and then said: " The door is locked.
As he spoke a black feather from one of the ornamental firs fell, brushing the brim of his hat.
It startled him more than the small and distant detonation that had come just before.
Then came another distant detonation, and the door he was trying to open shook under the bullet buried in it.
Flambeau's shoulders again filled out and altered suddenly.
Three hinges and a lock burst at the same instant, and he went out into the empty path behind, carrying the great garden door with him, as Samson carried the gates of Gaza.
Then he flung the garden door over the garden wall, just as a third shot picked up a spurt of snow and dust behind his heel.
Without ceremony he snatched up the little priest, slung him astraddle on his shoulders, and went racing towards Seawood as fast as his long legs could carry him.
It was not until nearly two miles farther on that he set his small companion down.
It had hardly been a dignified escape, in spite of the classic model of Anchises, but Father Brown's face only wore a broad grin.
And it was too dark to see him properly, because it was under that bandstand affair.
But I'm afraid I didn't describe him so very accurately after all, for his pince-nez was broken under him, and the long gold pin wasn't stuck through his purple scarf but through his heart.
But I fear this business has deep roots and dark.
They walked on through some streets in silence.
The yellow lamps were beginning to be lit in the cold blue twilight, and they were evidently approaching the more central parts of the town.
Of all God-forsaken dustbins of Nature, I think the most heart-breaking are places like that bandstand, that were meant to be festive and are forlorn.
I can fancy a morbid man feeling he must kill his rival in the solitude and irony of such a scene.
A bird sailed in heaven over it.
It was the Grand Stand at Epsom.
And I felt that no one would ever be happy there again.
They were eventually released.
A man was found strangled, it was said, on the Downs round that part.
As a fact, I know (from an Irish policeman who is a friend of mine) that he was found close up to the Epsom Grand Stand-in fact, only hidden by one of the lower doors being pushed back.
Do you feel sure a wise murderer would always want the spot to be lonely?
It's very, very seldom a man is quite alone.
And, short of that, the more alone he is, the more certain he is to be seen.
No; I think there must be some other-Why, here we are at the Pavilion or Palace, or whatever they call it.
cried Flambeau in great surprise, as his clerical friend stumped straight up the broad steps.
Are you going to see the fight?
There he stopped and asked to see Lord Pooley.
The attendant observed that his lordship was very busy, as the fight was coming on soon, but Father Brown had a good-tempered tedium of reiteration for which the official mind is generally not prepared.
In a few moments the rather baffled Flambeau found himself in the presence of a man who was still shouting directions to another man going out of the room.
Lord Pooley was a gentleman, and, like most of the few remaining to our race, was worried-especially about money.
He was half grey and half flaxen, and he had the eyes of fever and a high-bridged, frost-bitten nose.
Lord Pooley bounded off his chair as if a spring had flung him from it.
Weren't there parsons in the old days, when they fought without gloves?
Now they're fighting with the regulation gloves, and there's not the rag of a possibility of either of the boxers being killed.
said the nobleman, with a touch of frosty humour.
I could simply get him to escape.
I never could see anything wrong about prize-fights.
As it is, I must ask you to announce that the fight is off for the present.
jeered the gentleman with feverish eyes.
Lord Pooley looked at Flambeau.
A whole pack of Italians have turned up to back Malvoli-swarthy, savage fellows of some country, anyhow.
You know what these Mediterranean races are like.
If I send out word that it's off we shall have Malvoli storming in here at the head of a whole Corsican clan.
And see whether it is Malvoli who answers.
The nobleman struck the bell on the table with an odd air of new curiosity.
He said to the clerk who appeared almost instantly in the doorway: " I have a serious announcement to make to the audience shortly.
Meanwhile, would you kindly tell the two champions that the fight will have to be put off.
The clerk stared for some seconds as if at a demon and vanished.
asked Lord Pooley abruptly.
I picked it up on a bookstall in London-very cheap, too.
He had taken out of his pocket a small, stout, leather-bound volume, and Flambeau, looking over his shoulder, could see that it was some book of old travels, and had a leaf turned down for reference.
It differs from most other forms of devil-worship and human sacrifice in the fact that the blood is not shed formally on the altar, but by a sort of assassination among the crowd.
The gongs beat with a deafening din as the doors of the shrine open and the monkey-god is revealed; almost the whole congregation rivet ecstatic eyes on him.
The door of the room was flung open, and the fashionable negro stood framed in it, his eyeballs rolling, his silk hat still insolently tilted on his head.
he cried, showing his apish teeth.
You steal a coloured gentleman's prize-prize his already-yo'think yo'jes'save that white'Talian trash --
demanded the dark champion, pointing to the priest disdainfully.
The prize-fighter stood glaring for a few seconds, and then, rather to the surprise of Flambeau and the others, strode out, sending the door to with a crash behind him.
A beautiful Italian head.
I think you ought to tell me more about this.
He put the little leather book in his overcoat pocket.
That negro who has just swaggered out is one of the most dangerous men on earth, for he has the brains of a European, with the instincts of a cannibal.
He has turned what was clean, common-sense butchery among his fellow-barbarians into a very modern and scientific secret society of assassins.
He doesn't know I know it, nor, for the matter of that, that I can't prove it.
There was a silence, and the little man went on.
Lord Pooley's eyes recovered their frosty twinkle as he looked at the little clergyman.
He only said: " If you want to murder somebody, I should advise it.
Father Brown shook his head, like a murderer of much riper experience.
The more a man feels lonely the less he can be sure he is alone.
It must mean empty spaces round him, and they are just what make him obvious.
Have you never seen one ploughman from the heights, or one shepherd from the valleys?
Have you never walked along a cliff, and seen one man walking along the sands?
Didn't you know when he's killed a crab, and wouldn't you have known if it had been a creditor?
For an intelligent murderer, such as you or I might be, it is an impossible plan to make sure that nobody is looking at you.
A man is throttled close by the big stand at Epsom.
Anybody might have seen it done while the stand stood empty-any tramp under the hedges or motorist among the hills.
But nobody would have seen it when the stand was crowded and the whole ring roaring, when the favourite was coming in first-or wasn't.
The twisting of a neck-cloth, the thrusting of a body behind a door could be done in an instant-so long as it was that instant.
It was the same, of course," he continued turning to Flambeau, " with that poor fellow under the bandstand.
He was dropped through the hole (it wasn't an accidental hole) just at some very dramatic moment of the entertainment, when the bow of some great violinist or the voice of some great singer opened or came to its climax.
And here, of course, when the knock-out blow came-it would not be the only one.
I dare say he has some Italians with him, but our amiable friends are not Italians.
They are octoroons and African half-bloods of various shades, but I fear we English think all foreigners are much the same so long as they are dark and dirty.
Also," he added, with a smile, " I fear the English decline to draw any fine distinction between the moral character produced by my religion and that which blooms out of Voodoo.
Almost on every hand the secret of their purpose perished with them.
The man of the hotel was found drifting dead on the sea like so much seaweed; his right eye was closed in peace, but his left eye was wide open, and glistened like glass in the moon.
The remaining officer was surprised-nay, pained-and the negro got away.
Persons of a figure remotely reconcilable with his were subjected to quite extraordinary inquisitions, made to scrub their faces before going on board ship, as if each white complexion were made up like a mask, of greasepaint.
For people had found out how fearful and vast and silent was the force of the savage secret society, and by the time Flambeau and Father Brown were leaning on the parade parapet in April, the Black Man meant in England almost what he once meant in Scotland.
They must have found him at the ports if he had only whitened his face.
Flambeau, leaning motionless on the parapet, laughed and said: " My dear fellow!
FATHER BROWN was walking home from Mass on a white weird morning when the mists were slowly lifting-one of those mornings when the very element of light appears as something mysterious and new.
The scattered trees outlined themselves more and more out of the vapour, as if they were first drawn in grey chalk and then in charcoal.
At yet more distant intervals appeared the houses upon the broken fringe of the suburb; their outlines became clearer and clearer until he recognized many in which he had chance acquaintances, and many more the names of whose owners he knew.
But all the windows and doors were sealed; none of the people were of the sort that would be up at such a time, or still less on such an errand.
But as he passed under the shadow of one handsome villa with verandas and wide ornate gardens, he heard a noise that made him almost involuntarily stop.
It was the unmistakable noise of a pistol or carbine or some light firearm discharged; but it was not this that puzzled him most.
The first full noise was immediately followed by a series of fainter noises-as he counted them, about six.
He supposed it must be the echo; but the odd thing was that the echo was not in the least like the original sound.
It was not like anything else that he could think of; the three things nearest to it seemed to be the noise made by siphons of soda-water, one of the many noises made by an animal, and the noise made by a person attempting to conceal laughter.
None of which seemed to make much sense.
Father Brown was made of two men.
There was a man of action, who was as modest as a primrose and as punctual as a clock; who went his small round of duties and never dreamed of altering it.
There was also a man of reflection, who was much simpler but much stronger, who could not easily be stopped; whose thought was always (in the only intelligent sense of the words) free thought.
He could not help, even unconsciously, asking himself all the questions that there were to be asked, and answering as many of them as he could; all that went on like his breathing or circulation.
But he never consciously carried his actions outside the sphere of his own duty; and in this case the two attitudes were aptly tested.
He was just about to resume his trudge in the twilight, telling himself it was no affair of his, but instinctively twisting and untwisting twenty theories about what the odd noises might mean.
Then the grey sky-line brightened into silver, and in the broadening light he realized that he had been to the house which belonged to an Anglo-Indian Major named Putnam; and that the Major had a native cook from Malta who was of his communion.
He also began to remember that pistol-shots are sometimes serious things; accompanied with consequences with which he was legitimately concerned.
He turned back and went in at the garden gate, making for the front door.
Half-way down one side of the house stood out a projection like a very low shed; it was, as he afterwards discovered, a large dustbin.
Round the corner of this came a figure, at first a mere shadow in the haze, apparently bending and peering about.
Then, coming nearer, it solidified into a figure that was, indeed, rather unusually solid.
Major Putnam was a bald-headed, bull-necked man, short and very broad, with one of those rather apoplectic faces that are produced by a prolonged attempt to combine the oriental climate with the occidental luxuries.
But the face was a good-humoured one, and even now, though evidently puzzled and inquisitive, wore a kind of innocent grin.
He had evidently come out of his house in a hurry, and the priest was not surprised when he called out without further ceremony: " Did you hear that noise?
The Major looked at him rather queerly with his good-humoured gooseberry eyes.
The Major was still looking at him quietly, but with protruding eyes, when the front door was flung open, releasing a flood of gaslight on the face of the fading mist; and another figure in pyjamas sprang or tumbled out into the garden.
The figure was much longer, leaner, and more athletic; the pyjamas, though equally tropical, were comparatively tasteful, being of white with a light lemon-yellow stripe.
The man was haggard, but handsome, more sunburned than the other; he had an aquiline profile and rather deep-sunken eyes, and a slight air of oddity arising from the combination of coal-black hair with a much lighter moustache.
All this Father Brown absorbed in detail more at leisure.
For the moment he only saw one thing about the man; which was the revolver in his hand.
exclaimed the Major, staring at him; " did you fire that shot?
If you were chased everywhere by devils and nearly --
The Major seemed to intervene rather hurriedly.
And then to Brown: " I don't know whether you've met Colonel Cray of the Royal Artillery.
Colonel Cray was regarding his host with a strange and steady stare.
Father Brown's hand went half-way to his head, with the gesture of a man remembering somebody's name.
He knew now what it was that was neither soda-water nor the snorting of a dog.
Then, after a bewildered pause, he said: " Was it a burglar?
The interior exhibited a paradox often to be marked in such morning hours: that the rooms seemed brighter than the sky outside; even after the Major had turned out the one gaslight in the front hall.
Father Brown was surprised to see the whole dining-table set out as for a festive meal, with napkins in their rings, and wine-glasses of some six unnecessary shapes set beside every plate.
It was common enough, at that time of the morning, to find the remains of a banquet over-night; but to find it freshly spread so early was unusual.
While he stood wavering in the hall Major Putnam rushed past him and sent a raging eye over the whole oblong of the tablecloth.
At last he spoke, spluttering: " All the silver gone!
Even the old silver cream-jug gone.
And now, Father Brown, I am ready to answer your question of whether it was a burglar.
The Major patted him on the shoulder with a gesture almost peculiar to the soothing of a sick child, and said: " It was a burglar.
Obviously it was a burglar.
The Major shook his head in a sombre manner.
He's lived in very wild places; and, to be frank with you, I think he sometimes fancies things.
Major Putnam nodded, but at the same time shrugged his shoulders.
They passed out into the morning light, which was now even tinged with sunshine, and saw Colonel Cray's tall figure bent almost double, minutely examining the condition of gravel and grass.
While the Major strolled unobtrusively towards him, the priest took an equally indolent turn, which took him round the next corner of the house to within a yard or two of the projecting dustbin.
He stood regarding this dismal object for some minute and a half --, then he stepped towards it, lifted the lid and put his head inside.
Dust and other discolouring matter shook upwards as he did so; but Father Brown never observed his own appearance, whatever else he observed.
He remained thus for a measurable period, as if engaged in some mysterious prayers.
Then he came out again, with some ashes on his hair, and walked unconcernedly away.
By the time he came round to the garden door again he found a group there which seemed to roll away morbidities as the sunlight had already rolled away the mists.
It was in no way rationally reassuring; it was simply broadly comic, like a cluster of Dickens's characters.
Major Putnam had managed to slip inside and plunge into a proper shirt and trousers, with a crimson cummerbund, and a light square jacket over all; thus normally set off, his red festive face seemed bursting with a commonplace cordiality.
He was indeed emphatic, but then he was talking to his cook-the swarthy son of Malta, whose lean, yellow and rather careworn face contrasted quaintly with his snow-white cap and costume.
The cook might well be careworn, for cookery was the Major's hobby.
He was one of those amateurs who always know more than the professional.
The only other person he even admitted to be a judge of an omelette was his friend Cray-and as Brown remembered this, he turned to look for the other officer.
In the new presence of daylight and people clothed and in their right mind, the sight of him was rather a shock.
Seeing him thus quadrupedal in the grass, the priest raised his eyebrows rather sadly; and for the first time guessed that " fancies things " might be an euphemism.
The third item in the group of the cook and the epicure was also known to Father Brown; it was Audrey Watson, the Major's ward and housekeeper; and at this moment, to judge by her apron, tucked-up sleeves and resolute manner, much more the housekeeper than the ward.
It's Sunday, and we can't send for vinegar and all that in the town; and you Indian gentlemen can't enjoy what you call a dinner without a lot of hot things.
I wish to goodness now you hadn't asked Cousin Oliver to take me to the musical service.
It isn't over till half-past twelve, and the Colonel has to leave by then.
I don't believe you men can manage alone.
And it's time you had a treat, Audrey; you mustn't be a housekeeper every hour of the day; and I know you want to hear the music.
She was one of those handsome women who will always be handsome, because the beauty is not in an air or a tint, but in the very structure of the head and features.
But though she was not yet middle-aged and her auburn hair was of a Titianesque fullness in form and colour, there was a look in her mouth and around her eyes which suggested that some sorrows wasted her, as winds waste at last the edges of a Greek temple.
For indeed the little domestic difficulty of which she was now speaking so decisively was rather comic than tragic.
She was going there under the escort of a relative and old friend of hers, Dr Oliver Oman, who, though a scientific man of a somewhat bitter type, was enthusiastic for music, and would go even to church to get it.
There was nothing in all this that could conceivably concern the tragedy in Miss Watson's face; and by a half conscious instinct, Father Brown turned again to the seeming lunatic grubbing about in the grass.
When he strolled across to him, the black, unbrushed head was lifted abruptly, as if in some surprise at his continued presence.
And indeed, Father Brown, for reasons best known to himself, had lingered much longer than politeness required; or even, in the ordinary sense, permitted.
cried Cray, with wild eyes.
snapped Cray quite savagely.
They never strive against it.
But you are trying to find traces of the burglar; even when there aren't any.
You are struggling against it.
You want what no madman ever wants.
During the last words Cray had sprung or staggered to his feet and was regarding the cleric with agitated eyes.
She's been at me," and he tossed his tousled black head towards Audrey, but the other had no need of the direction, " she's been at me today about how cruel I was to shoot a poor harmless house-breaker, and how I have the devil in me against poor harmless natives.
But I was a good-natured man once-as good-natured as Putnam.
After a pause he said: " Look here, I've never seen you before; but you shall judge of the whole story.
Old Putnam and I were friends in the same mess; but, owing to some accidents on the Afghan border, I got my command much sooner than most men; only we were both invalided home for a bit.
I was engaged to Audrey out there; and we all travelled back together.
But on the journey back things happened.
The result of them was that Putnam wants it broken off, and even Audrey keeps it hanging on-and I know what they mean.
I know what they think I am.
The last day we were in an Indian city I asked Putnam if I could get some Trichinopoli cigars, he directed me to a little place opposite his lodgings.
I have since found he was quite right; but 'opposite'is a dangerous word when one decent house stands opposite five or six squalid ones; and I must have mistaken the door.
It opened with difficulty, and then only on darkness; but as I turned back, the door behind me sank back and settled into its place with a noise as of innumerable bolts.
There was nothing to do but to walk forward; which I did through passage after passage, pitch-dark.
Then I came to a flight of steps, and then to a blind door, secured by a latch of elaborate Eastern ironwork, which I could only trace by touch, but which I loosened at last.
I came out again upon gloom, which was half turned into a greenish twilight by a multitude of small but steady lamps below.
They showed merely the feet or fringes of some huge and empty architecture.
Just in front of me was something that looked like a mountain.
I confess I nearly fell on the great stone platform on which I had emerged, to realize that it was an idol.
And worst of all, an idol with its back to me.
I had begun, in the dim light, to guess at the hieroglyphic, not without horror, when a more horrible thing happened.
A door opened silently in the temple wall behind me and a man came out, with a brown face and a black coat.
He had a carved smile on his face, of copper flesh and ivory teeth; but I think the most hateful thing about him was that he was in European dress.
I was prepared, I think, for shrouded priests or naked fakirs.
But this seemed to say that the devilry was over all the earth.
As indeed I found it to be.
If you had seen the Monkey's Face, still we should be very moderate, very tolerant-you would only be tortured and live.
But as you have seen the Monkey's Tail, we must pronounce the worst sentence.
And with that he was swallowed once more in the wall behind; and I went out into the street.
Cray paused; and Father Brown unaffectedly sat down on the lawn and began to pick daisies.
Then the soldier continued: " Putnam, of course, with his jolly common sense, pooh-poohed all my fears; and from that time dates his doubt of my mental balance.
Well, I'll simply tell you, in the fewest words, the three things that have happened since; and you shall judge which of us is right.
I woke in black midnight, and lay thinking of nothing in particular, when I felt a faint tickling thing, like a thread or a hair, trailed across my throat.
I shrank back out of its way, and could not help thinking of the words in the temple.
But when I got up and sought lights and a mirror, the line across my neck was a line of blood.
It was a jumble of tavern and curiosity-shop; and though there was nothing there remotely suggesting the cult of the Monkey, it is, of course, possible that some of its images or talismans were in such a place.
Its curse was there, anyhow.
I woke again in the dark with a sensation that could not be put in colder or more literal words than that a breath bit like an adder.
Existence was an agony of extinction; I dashed my head against walls until I dashed it against a window; and fell rather than jumped into the garden below.
Putnam, poor fellow, who had called the other thing a chance scratch, was bound to take seriously the fact of finding me half insensible on the grass at dawn.
But I fear it was my mental state he took seriously; and not my story.
We were in a fortress there; and as it happened our bedrooms overlooked the open sea, which almost came up to our window-sills, save for a flat white outer wall as bare as the sea.
I woke up again; but it was not dark.
There was a full moon, as I walked to the window; I could have seen a bird on the bare battlement, or a sail on the horizon.
What I did see was a sort of stick or branch circling, self-supported, in the empty sky.
It flew straight in at my window and smashed the lamp beside the pillow I had just quitted.
It was one of those queer-shaped war-clubs some Eastern tribes use.
But it had come from no human hand.
Father Brown threw away a daisy-chain he was making, and rose with a wistful look.
As they entered they passed Miss Watson buttoning her gloves for church, and heard the voice of Putnam downstairs still giving a lecture on cookery to the cook.
In the Major's study and den of curios they came suddenly on a third party, silk-hatted and dressed for the street, who was poring over an open book on the smoking-table-a book which he dropped rather guiltily, and turned.
Cray introduced him civilly enough, as Dr Oman, but he showed such disfavour in his very face that Brown guessed the two men, whether Audrey knew it or not, were rivals.
Nor was the priest wholly unsympathetic with the prejudice.
Dr Oman was a very well-dressed gentleman indeed; well-featured, though almost dark enough for an Asiatic.
But Father Brown had to tell himself sharply that one should be in charity even with those who wax their pointed beards, who have small gloved hands, and who speak with perfectly modulated voices.
Cray seemed to find something specially irritating in the small prayer-book in Oman's dark-gloved hand.
Oman laughed mildly, but without offence.
But it's rather too large to take to church.
Then he closed the larger book, and there seemed again the faintest touch of hurry and embarrassment.
And he ran his eyes over the stew-pots or other strange utensils on the wall.
At this moment the jolly subject of their conversation thrust his laughing, lobsterish face into the room.
And the bells are ringing for those who want to go to church.
The priest looked puzzled.
Or was he there earlier today?
Father Brown, touching other people, was as sensitive as a barometer; but today he seemed about as sensitive as a rhinoceros.
By no social law, rigid or implied, could he be supposed to linger round the lunch of the Anglo-Indian friends; but he lingered, covering his position with torrents of amusing but quite needless conversation.
He was the more puzzling because he did not seem to want any lunch.
His talk, however, was exuberant.
I can't eat it, but I'll mix it like an angel!
You've got a lettuce there.
That's why I always carry a cruet-stand about with me.
And to the amazement of the two men he took a pepper-pot out of his waistcoat pocket and put it on the table.
And vinegar "and producing that condiment-" haven't I heard something about vinegar and brown paper?
As for oil, which I think I put in my left --
His garrulity was an instant arrested; for lifting his eyes, he saw what no one else saw-the black figure of Dr Oman standing on the sunlit lawn and looking steadily into the room.
Before he could quite recover himself Cray had cloven in.
His voice changed a little, and he leaned back in his chair.
And as for vinegar, can any soldiers forget that solitary soldier, who, when the sun was darkened --
Colonel Cray leaned forward a little and clutched the tablecloth.
Father Brown, who was making the salad, tipped two spoonfuls of the mustard into the tumbler of water beside him; stood up and said in a new, loud and sudden voice --" Drink that!
At the same moment the motionless doctor in the garden came running, and bursting open a window cried: " Am I wanted?
And Cray lay in a deck-chair, gasping as for life, but alive.
Major Putnam had sprung up, his purple face mottled.
The priest could hear him dragging down his palm-leaf hat from the peg and tumbling out of the front door; he heard the garden gate slam.
But he only stood looking at Cray; and after a silence said quietly:
There is no curse on you.
The Temple of the Monkey was either a coincidence or a part of the trick; the trick was the trick of a white man.
There is only one weapon that will bring blood with that mere feathery touch: a razor held by a white man.
There is one way of making a common room full of invisible, overpowering poison: turning on the gas-the crime of a white man.
And there is only one kind of club that can be thrown out of a window, turn in mid-air and come back to the window next to it: the Australian boomerang.
You'll see some of them in the Major's study.
With that he went outside and spoke for a moment to the doctor.
The moment after, Audrey Watson came rushing into the house and fell on her knees beside Cray's chair.
He could not hear what they said to each other; but their faces moved with amazement, not unhappiness.
The doctor and the priest walked slowly towards the garden gate.
But what made you suspect?
That book on his table was a work on poisons; and was put down open at the place where it stated that a certain Indian poison, though deadly and difficult to trace, was particularly easily reversible by the use of the commonest emetics.
I suppose he read that at the last moment --
He threw the cruet in the dustbin-where I found it, along with other silver-for the sake of a burglary blind.
But if you look at that pepper-pot I put on the table, you'll see a small hole.
That's where Cray's bullet struck, shaking up the pepper and making the criminal sneeze.
Then Dr Oman said grimly: " The Major is a long time looking for the police.
MR CALHOUN KIDD was a very young gentleman with a very old face, a face dried up with its own eagerness, framed in blue-black hair and a black butterfly tie.
He was the emissary in England of the colossal American daily called the Western Sun-also humorously described as the " Rising Sunset ".
This was in allusion to a great journalistic declaration (attributed to Mr Kidd himself) that " he guessed the sun would rise in the west yet, if American citizens did a bit more hustling.
Those, however, who mock American journalism from the standpoint of somewhat mellower traditions forget a certain paradox which partly redeems it.
For while the journalism of the States permits a pantomimic vulgarity long past anything English, it also shows a real excitement about the most earnest mental problems, of which English papers are innocent, or rather incapable.
The Sun was full of the most solemn matters treated in the most farcical way.
William James figured there as well as " Weary Willie," and pragmatists alternated with pugilists in the long procession of its portraits.
But many American papers seized on the challenge as a great event; and the Sun threw the shadow of Mr Boulnois quite gigantically across its pages.
And Mr Calhoun Kidd, of the Western Sun, was bidden to take his butterfly tie and lugubrious visage down to the little house outside Oxford where Thinker Boulnois lived in happy ignorance of such a title.
That fated philosopher had consented, in a somewhat dazed manner, to receive the interviewer, and had named the hour of nine that evening.
In the bar parlour he rang the bell, and had to wait some little time for a reply to it.
The only other person present was a lean man with close red hair and loose, horsey-looking clothes, who was drinking very bad whisky, but smoking a very good cigar.
The whisky, of course, was the choice brand of The Champion Arms; the cigar he had probably brought with him from London.
Nothing could be more different than his cynical negligence from the dapper dryness of the young American; but something in his pencil and open notebook, and perhaps in the expression of his alert blue eye, caused Kidd to guess, correctly, that he was a brother journalist.
asked the other pressman, looking up.
And he laughed rather unpleasantly.
asked the wondering Yankee.
With that he spat on the floor; yet somehow in the very act and instant one could realize that the man had been brought up as a gentleman.
The American pressman considered him with more attention.
His face was pale and dissipated, with the promise of formidable passions yet to be loosed; but it was a clever and sensitive face; his clothes were coarse and careless, but he had a good seal ring on one of his long, thin fingers.
His name, which came out in the course of talk, was James Dalroy; he was the son of a bankrupt Irish landlord, and attached to a pink paper which he heartily despised, called Smart Society, in the capacity of reporter and of something painfully like a spy.
Smart Society, I regret to say, felt none of that interest in Boulnois on Darwin which was such a credit to the head and hearts of the Western Sun.
Dalroy had come down, it seemed, to snuff up the scent of a scandal which might very well end in the Divorce Court, but which was at present hovering between Grey Cottage and Pendragon Park.
Sir Claude Champion was known to the readers of the Western Sun as well as Mr Boulnois.
So were the Pope and the Derby Winner; but the idea of their intimate acquaintanceship would have struck Kidd as equally incongruous.
Sir Claude was really rather magnificent in other than American eyes.
There was something of the Renascence Prince about his omnivorous culture and restless publicity --, he was not only a great amateur, but an ardent one.
There was in him none of that antiquarian frivolity that we convey by the word " dilettante ".
That faultless falcon profile with purple-black Italian eye, which had been snap-shotted so often both for Smart Society and the Western Sun, gave everyone the impression of a man eaten by ambition as by a fire, or even a disease.
Such, according to Dalroy's account, was nevertheless the fact.
Indeed, Boulnois's cottage stood just outside the gates of Pendragon Park.
But whether the two men could be friends much longer was becoming a dark and ugly question.
Sir Claude had carried the arts of publicity to perfection; and he seemed to take a crazy pleasure in being equally ostentatious in an intrigue that could do him no sort of honour.
That very evening, marked by Mr Kidd for the exposition of Catastrophism, had been marked by Sir Claude Champion for an open-air rendering of Romeo and Juliet, in which he was to play Romeo to a Juliet it was needless to name.
But if he's square he's thick-what you might call cubic.
But I don't believe it's possible.
I shall be following myself in a minute or two.
But Calhoun Kidd, having finished a milk and soda, betook himself smartly up the road towards the Grey Cottage, leaving his cynical informant to his whisky and tobacco.
The last of the daylight had faded; the skies were of a dark, green-grey, like slate, studded here and there with a star, but lighter on the left side of the sky, with the promise of a rising moon.
The Grey Cottage, which stood entrenched, as it were, in a square of stiff, high thorn-hedges, was so close under the pines and palisades of the Park that Kidd at first mistook it for the Park Lodge.
Finding the name on the narrow wooden gate, however, and seeing by his watch that the hour of the " Thinker's " appointment had just struck, he went in and knocked at the front door.
Inside the garden hedge, he could see that the house, though unpretentious enough, was larger and more luxurious than it looked at first, and was quite a different kind of place from a porter's lodge.
And he shut the door, brutally, but with an air of duty not done.
The American, that curious compound of impudence and sensitiveness, was annoyed.
In that case I reckon a man from the Western Sun will be on the spot.
And turning the corner by the open lodge-gates, he set off, stumping up the long avenue of black pine-woods that pointed in abrupt perspective towards the inner gardens of Pendragon Park.
The trees were as black and orderly as plumes upon a hearse; there were still a few stars.
He was a man with more literary than direct natural associations; the word " Ravenswood " came into his head repeatedly.
More than once, as he went up that strange, black road of tragic artifice, he stopped, startled, thinking he heard steps in front of him.
He could see nothing in front but the twin sombre walls of pine and the wedge of starlit sky above them.
At first he thought he must have fancied it or been mocked by a mere echo of his own tramp.
But as he went on he was more and more inclined to conclude, with the remains of his reason, that there really were other feet upon the road.
He thought hazily of ghosts; and was surprised how swiftly he could see the image of an appropriate and local ghost, one with a face as white as Pierrot's, but patched with black.
The apex of the triangle of dark-blue sky was growing brighter and bluer, but he did not realize as yet that this was because he was coming nearer to the lights of the great house and garden.
He only felt that the atmosphere was growing more intense, there was in the sadness more violence and secrecy-more-he hesitated for the word, and then said it with a jerk of laughter-Catastrophism.
More pines, more pathway slid past him, and then he stood rooted as by a blast of magic.
It is vain to say that he felt as if he had got into a dream; but this time he felt quite certain that he had got into a book.
For we human beings are used to inappropriate things; we are accustomed to the clatter of the incongruous; it is a tune to which we can go to sleep.
If one appropriate thing happens, it wakes us up like the pang of a perfect chord.
Something happened such as would have happened in such a place in a forgotten tale.
Over the black pine-wood came flying and flashing in the moon a naked sword-such a slender and sparkling rapier as may have fought many an unjust duel in that ancient park.
It fell on the pathway far in front of him and lay there glistening like a large needle.
He ran like a hare and bent to look at it.
Seen at close quarters it had rather a showy look: the big red jewels in the hilt and guard were a little dubious.
But there were other red drops upon the blade which were not dubious.
Nevertheless, he did not look at this, having something more interesting to look at.
Kidd could see the finger of the dial stand up dark against the sky like the dorsal fin of a shark and the vain moonlight clinging to that idle clock.
But he saw something else clinging to it also, for one wild moment-the figure of a man.
Though he saw it there only for a moment, though it was outlandish and incredible in costume, being clad from neck to heel in tight crimson, with glints of gold, yet he knew in one flash of moonlight who it was.
That white face flung up to heaven, clean-shaven and so unnaturally young, like Byron with a Roman nose, those black curls already grizzled-he had seen the thousand public portraits of Sir Claude Champion.
The wild red figure reeled an instant against the sundial; the next it had rolled down the steep bank and lay at the American's feet, faintly moving one arm.
A gaudy, unnatural gold ornament on the arm suddenly reminded Kidd of Romeo and Juliet; of course the tight crimson suit was part of the play.
But there was a long red stain down the bank from which the man had rolled-that was no part of the play.
He had been run through the body.
Mr Calhoun Kidd shouted and shouted again.
Once more he seemed to hear phantasmal footsteps, and started to find another figure already near him.
He knew the figure, and yet it terrified him.
The dissipated youth who had called himself Dalroy had a horribly quiet way with him; if Boulnois failed to keep appointments that had been made, Dalroy had a sinister air of keeping appointments that hadn't.
The moonlight discoloured everything, against Dalroy's red hair his wan face looked not so much white as pale green.
All this morbid impressionism must be Kidd's excuse for having cried out, brutally and beyond all reason: " Did you do this, you devil?
James Dalroy smiled his unpleasing smile; but before he could speak, the fallen figure made another movement of the arm, waving vaguely towards the place where the sword fell; then came a moan, and then it managed to speak.
Kidd bent his head down to hear more, and just managed to catch the words:
Again the failing hand waved towards the sword, and then fell rigid with a thud.
In Kidd rose from its depth all that acrid humour that is the strange salt of the seriousness of his race.
The American knelt down by the body, felt the heart, propped up the head and used some last efforts at restoration; but before the other journalist reappeared, followed by a doctor and a priest, he was already prepared to assert they were too late.
asked the doctor, a solid prosperous-looking man, with conventional moustache and whiskers, but a lively eye, which darted over Kidd dubiously.
I heard the dead man denounce his assassin.
asked the doctor, drawing his eyebrows together.
The doctor stared at him gloomily with a reddening brow --, but he did not contradict.
Then the priest, a shorter figure in the background, said mildly: " I understood that Mr Boulnois was not coming to Pendragon Park this evening.
Yes, sir, John Boulnois was going to stay in all this evening; he fixed up a real good appointment there with me.
But John Boulnois changed his mind; John Boulnois left his home abruptly and all alone, and came over to this darned Park an hour or so ago.
I think we hold what the all-wise police call a clue-have you sent for them?
asked James Dalroy, and again Kidd was conscious of an irrational desire to hit him on his curling mouth.
The little priest had stepped out into the main avenue, and now returned with the fallen sword, which looked ludicrously large and theatrical when attached to his dumpy figure, at once clerical and commonplace.
The Yankee journalist took an electric torch from his pocket, and the priest held it close to the middle part of the blade, which he examined with blinking care.
Then, without glancing at the point or pommel, he handed the long weapon to the doctor.
And he walked away up the dark avenue towards the house, his hands clasped behind him and his big head bent in cogitation.
The rest of the group made increased haste towards the lodge-gates, where an inspector and two constables could already be seen in consultation with the lodge-keeper.
But the little priest only walked slower and slower in the dim cloister of pine, and at last stopped dead, on the steps of the house.
It was his silent way of acknowledging an equally silent approach; for there came towards him a presence that might have satisfied even Calhoun Kidd's demands for a lovely and aristocratic ghost.
It was a young woman in silvery satins of a Renascence design; she had golden hair in two long shining ropes, and a face so startingly pale between them that she might have been chryselephantine-made, that is, like some old Greek statues, out of ivory and gold.
But her eyes were very bright, and her voice, though low, was confident.
Then he looked at her and immediately said: " I see you know about Sir Claude.
He did not answer the question, but asked another: " Have you seen your husband?
Again he did not answer; and the woman drew nearer to him, with a curiously intense expression on her face.
she said, with a rather fearful smile.
Father Brown returned her gaze with a long, grave stare, and then nodded, yet more gravely.
Will you tell me why you haven't jumped to the conclusion of poor John's guilt, as all the rest have done?
Don't mind what you say: I-I know about the gossip and the appearances that are against me.
Father Brown looked honestly embarrassed, and passed his hand across his forehead.
But such as they are, they don't fit in with Mr Boulnois being the murderer.
He turned his blank, round face up to the stars and continued absentmindedly: " To take the vague idea first.
I attach a good deal of importance to vague ideas.
All those things that 'aren't evidence'are what convince me.
I think a moral impossibility the biggest of all impossibilities.
I know your husband only slightly, but I think this crime of his, as generally conceived, something very like a moral impossibility.
Please do not think I mean that Boulnois could not be so wicked.
Anybody can be wicked-as wicked as he chooses.
We can direct our moral wills; but we can't generally change our instinctive tastes and ways of doing things.
Boulnois might commit a murder, but not this murder.
He would not snatch Romeo's sword from its romantic scabbard; or slay his foe on the sundial as on a kind of altar; or leave his body among the roses, or fling the sword away among the pines.
If Boulnois killed anyone he'd do it quietly and heavily, as he'd do any other doubtful thing-take a tenth glass of port, or read a loose Greek poet.
No, the romantic setting is not like Boulnois.
she said, and looked at him with eyes like diamonds.
These were on a polished surface.
They were half-way down the blade of the sword.
Whose prints they were I have no earthly clue; but why should anybody hold a sword half-way down?
It was a long sword, but length is an advantage in lunging at an enemy.
At least, at most enemies.
At all enemies except one.
There was a long silence, and then the priest said quietly but abruptly: " Am I right, then?
Did Sir Claude kill himself?
An extraordinary expression flashed across her face, very different from pity, modesty, remorse, or anything her companion had expected: her voice became suddenly strong and full.
asked the other, and turned his round face from the sky to the lady.
Father Brown only nodded, and seemed still to be listening; he differed from most detectives in fact and fiction in a small point-he never pretended not to understand when he understood perfectly well.
Mrs Boulnois drew near once more with the same contained glow of certainty.
Sir Claude Champion was not a great man: he was a celebrated and successful man.
My husband has never been celebrated or successful; and it is the solemn truth that he has never dreamed of being so.
He no more expects to be famous for thinking than for smoking cigars.
On all that side he has a sort of splendid stupidity.
He still liked Champion exactly as he liked him at school; he admired him as he would admire a conjuring trick done at the dinner-table.
But he couldn't be got to conceive the notion of envying Champion.
And Champion wanted to be envied.
He went mad and killed himself for that.
she cried; " the whole picture is made for that-the place is planned for it.
Champion put John in a little house at his very door, like a dependant-to make him feel a failure.
He thinks no more about such things than-than an absent-minded lion.
After five years of it John had not turned a hair; and Sir Claude Champion was a monomaniac.
They began to attract attention, especially in America, and one paper wanted to interview him.
When Champion (who was interviewed nearly every day) heard of this late little crumb of success falling to his unconscious rival, the last link snapped that held back his devilish hatred.
Then he began to lay that insane siege to my own love and honour which has been the talk of the shire.
You will ask me why I allowed such atrocious attentions.
I answer that I could not have declined them except by explaining to my husband, and there are some things the soul cannot do, as the body cannot fly.
Nobody could have explained to my husband.
If you said to him in so many words, 'Champion is stealing your wife,' he would think the joke a little vulgar: that it could be anything but a joke-that notion could find no crack in his great skull to get in by.
Well, John was to come and see us act this evening, but just as we were starting he said he wouldn't; he had got an interesting book and a cigar.
I told this to Sir Claude, and it was his death-blow.
The monomaniac suddenly saw despair.
He stabbed himself, crying out like a devil that Boulnois was slaying him; he lies there in the garden dead of his own jealousy to produce jealousy, and John is sitting in the dining-room reading a book.
There was another silence, and then the little priest said: " There is only one weak point, Mrs Boulnois, in all your very vivid account.
Your husband is not sitting in the dining-room reading a book.
That American reporter told me he had been to your house, and your butler told him Mr Boulnois had gone to Pendragon Park after all.
Her bright eyes widened to an almost electric glare; and yet it seemed rather bewilderment than confusion or fear.
And we don't keep a butler, thank goodness!
Father Brown started and spun half round like an absurd teetotum.
he cried seeming galvanized into sudden life.
rejoined the cleric energetically, and set off scuttling up the path towards the Park gates.
He turned once to say: " Better get hold of that Yankee, or 'Crime of John Boulnois'will be all over the Republic in large letters.
I don't think he imagines that America really is a place.
When Father Brown reached the house with the beehive and the drowsy dog, a small and neat maid-servant showed him into the dining-room, where Boulnois sat reading by a shaded lamp, exactly as his wife described him.
A decanter of port and a wineglass were at his elbow; and the instant the priest entered he noted the long ash stand out unbroken on his cigar.
In fact, he had the air of sitting where he had sat when his dinner was cleared away.
I fear I break in on some of your scientific studies.
He said it with neither frown nor smile, and his visitor was conscious of a certain deep and virile indifference in the man which his wife had called greatness.
He laid down a gory yellow " shocker " without even feeling its incongruity enough to comment on it humorously.
John Boulnois was a big, slow-moving man with a massive head, partly grey and partly bald, and blunt, burly features.
He was in shabby and very old-fashioned evening-dress, with a narrow triangular opening of shirt-front: he had assumed it that evening in his original purpose of going to see his wife act Juliet.
Boulnois looked at him steadily, but a red bar began to show across his broad brow; and he seemed like one discovering embarrassment for the first time.
The little sins are sometimes harder to confess than the big ones-but that's why it's so important to confess them.
Your crime is committed by every fashionable hostess six times a week: and yet you find it sticks to your tongue like a nameless atrocity.
It was security, eternity-I can't convey it... the cigars were within reach... the matches were within reach... the Thumb had four more appearances to... it was not only a peace, but a plenitude.
Then that bell rang, and I thought for one long, mortal minute that I couldn't get out of that chair-literally, physically, muscularly couldn't.
Then I did it like a man lifting the world, because I knew all the servants were out.
I opened the front door, and there was a little man with his mouth open to speak and his notebook open to write in.
I remembered the Yankee interviewer I had forgotten.
His hair was parted in the middle, and I tell you that murder --
I said I had gone across to Pendragon Park and shut the door in his face.
That is my crime, Father Brown, and I don't know what penance you would inflict for it.
I came here specially to let you off the little penance which would otherwise have followed your little offence.
THE picturesque city and state of Heiligwaldenstein was one of those toy kingdoms of which certain parts of the German Empire still consist.
It had come under the Prussian hegemony quite late in history-hardly fifty years before the fine summer day when Flambeau and Father Brown found themselves sitting in its gardens and drinking its beer.
There had been not a little of war and wild justice there within living memory, as soon will be shown.
But in merely looking at it one could not dismiss that impression of childishness which is the most charming side of Germany-those little pantomime, paternal monarchies in which a king seems as domestic as a cook.
The German soldiers by the innumerable sentry-boxes looked strangely like German toys, and the clean-cut battlements of the castle, gilded by the sunshine, looked the more like the gilt gingerbread.
For it was brilliant weather.
The sky was as Prussian a blue as Potsdam itself could require, but it was yet more like that lavish and glowing use of the colour which a child extracts from a shilling paint-box.
Even the grey-ribbed trees looked young, for the pointed buds on them were still pink, and in a pattern against the strong blue looked like innumerable childish figures.
Despite his prosaic appearance and generally practical walk of life, Father Brown was not without a certain streak of romance in his composition, though he generally kept his daydreams to himself, as many children do.
Amid the brisk, bright colours of such a day, and in the heraldic framework of such a town, he did feel rather as if he had entered a fairy tale.
He took a childish pleasure, as a younger brother might, in the formidable sword-stick which Flambeau always flung as he walked, and which now stood upright beside his tall mug of Munich.
Nay, in his sleepy irresponsibility, he even found himself eyeing the knobbed and clumsy head of his own shabby umbrella, with some faint memories of the ogre's club in a coloured toy-book.
But he never composed anything in the form of fiction, unless it be the tale that follows:
It's a splendid back-scene for them, but I always have a kind of feeling that they would fight you with pasteboard sabres more than real, horrible swords.
And there's worse than that.
asked Brown in some wonder.
It was one of the great police mysteries about twenty years ago.
You remember, of course, that this place was forcibly annexed at the time of Bismarck's very earliest schemes of consolidation-forcibly, that is, but not at all easily.
The empire (or what wanted to be one) sent Prince Otto of Grossenmark to rule the place in the Imperial interests.
We saw his portrait in the gallery there-a handsome old gentleman if he'd had any hair or eyebrows, and hadn't been wrinkled all over like a vulture; but he had things to harass him, as I'll explain in a minute.
He was a soldier of distinguished skill and success, but he didn't have altogether an easy job with this little place.
He was defeated in several battles by the celebrated Arnhold brothers-the three guerrilla patriots to whom Swinburne wrote a poem, you remember:
Wolves with the hair of the ermine, Crows that are crowned and kings-These things be many as vermin, Yet Three shall abide these things.
Or something of that kind.
They tell me that not long ago he could still be seen about the neighbourhood occasionally, a man in a black cloak, nearly blind, with very wild, white hair, but a face of astonishing softness.
His friend looked at him in some surprise.
Anyhow, that's the story of the Arnholds, and he was the last survivor of them.
Yes, and of all the men who played parts in that drama.
You must understand that towards the end of his life he began to have those tricks of the nerves not uncommon with tyrants.
He multiplied the ordinary daily and nightly guard round his castle till there seemed to be more sentry-boxes than houses in the town, and doubtful characters were shot without mercy.
He lived almost entirely in a little room that was in the very centre of the enormous labyrinth of all the other rooms, and even in this he erected another sort of central cabin or cupboard, lined with steel, like a safe or a battleship.
Some say that under the floor of this again was a secret hole in the earth, no more than large enough to hold him, so that, in his anxiety to avoid the grave, he was willing to go into a place pretty much like it.
The populace had been supposed to be disarmed ever since the suppression of the revolt, but Otto now insisted, as governments very seldom insist, on an absolute and literal disarmament.
People have been murdered with the mildest domestic comforts; certainly with tea-kettles, probably with tea-cosies.
On the other hand, if you showed an Ancient Briton a revolver, I doubt if he would know it was a weapon-until it was fired into him, of course.
Perhaps somebody introduced a firearm so new that it didn't even look like a firearm.
Perhaps it looked like a thimble or something.
Was the bullet at all peculiar?
He was a very able detective in the German service, and he tried to arrest me; I arrested him instead, and we had many interesting chats.
He was in charge here of the inquiry about Prince Otto, but I forgot to ask him anything about the bullet.
According to Grimm, what happened was this.
He paused a moment to drain the greater part of his dark lager at a draught, and then resumed:
Hitherto it had never been found by the most exacting inquiry which could --
Hadn't he anything to tell the Prince?
It is only right to say that it received some support from fragmentary words-spoken by the great Ludwig in the hour of death, when he looked at Heinrich but pointed at Paul, and said, 'You have not told him...' and was soon afterwards incapable of speech.
It was a brilliant gathering, but very late, and gradually the Chamberlain-you saw his portrait, too: a man with black eyebrows, serious eyes, and a meaningless sort of smile underneath-the Chamberlain, I say, discovered there was everything there except the Prince himself.
He searched all the outer salons; then, remembering the man's mad fits of fear, hurried to the inmost chamber.
That also was empty, but the steel turret or cabin erected in the middle of it took some time to open.
When it did open it was empty, too.
He went and looked into the hole in the ground, which seemed deeper and somehow all the more like a grave-that is his account, of course.
And even as he did so he heard a burst of cries and tumult in the long rooms and corridors without.
Next it was a wordless clamour startlingly close, and loud enough to be distinct if each word had not killed the other.
Next came words of a terrible clearness, coming nearer, and next one man, rushing into the room and telling the news as briefly as such news is told.
The blood still pulsed from his shattered temple and jaw, but it was the only part of him that moved like a living thing.
He was clad in his full white and yellow uniform, as to receive his guests within, except that the sash or scarf had been unbound and lay rather crumpled by his side.
Before he could be lifted he was dead.
But, dead or alive, he was a riddle-he who had always hidden in the inmost chamber out there in the wet woods, unarmed and alone.
asked the priest, staring rather vacantly at the veil of the branches above him.
However, the main point is that before help arrived he was dead, and the news, of course, had to be carried back to the castle.
The consternation it created was something beyond even that natural in a Court at the fall of a potentate.
The foreign visitors, especially the mining experts, were in the wildest doubt and excitement, as well as many important Prussian officials, and it soon began to be clear that the scheme for finding the treasure bulked much bigger in the business than people had supposed.
Experts and officials had been promised great prizes or international advantages, and some even said that the Prince's secret apartments and strong military protection were due less to fear of the populace than to the pursuit of some private investigation of --
He said the ugliest part of it, he thought-uglier than the blood and bullet-was that the flowers were quite short, plucked close under the head.
If she just pulled their heads off, as a child does, it looks as if --" And he hesitated.
He could have been killed, as you say, with lots of other things-even with his own military sash; but we have to explain not bow he was killed, but how he was shot.
And the fact is we can't.
They had the girl most ruthlessly searched; for, to tell the truth, she was a little suspect, though the niece and ward of the wicked old Chamberlain, Paul Arnhold.
But she was very romantic, and was suspected of sympathy with the old revolutionary enthusiasm in her family.
All the same, however romantic you are, you can't imagine a big bullet into a man's jaw or brain without using a gun or pistol.
And there was no pistol, though there were two pistol shots.
I leave it to you, my friend.
Father Brown's smooth brow became suddenly constricted.
Flambeau started a little.
cried Brown, frowning more and more, with a quite unusual concentration of curiosity.
Let me think this out for a moment.
A slight breeze stirred the budding trees and blew up into the sky cloudlets of white and pink that seemed to make the sky bluer and the whole coloured scene more quaint.
They might have been cherubs flying home to the casements of a sort of celestial nursery.
The oldest tower of the castle, the Dragon Tower, stood up as grotesque as the ale-mug, but as homely.
Only beyond the tower glimmered the wood in which the man had lain dead.
asked the priest at last.
He had distinguished himself even, before his exploits at Sadowa and Gravelotte; in fact, he rose from the ranks, which is very unusual even in the smallest of the German...
Father Brown sat up suddenly.
he cried, and made a mouth as if to whistle.
What a queer way of killing a man; but I suppose it was the only one possible.
But to think of hate so patient --
Perhaps I ought to say he died of having a sash.
I know it doesn't sound like having a disease.
As I explained before, he might easily have been strangled.
Only this place reminds me of fairy stories, and, if you like, I'll tell you a story.
One of the innumerable sentries saluted him, but he did not notice it.
He had no wish to be specially noticed himself.
He was glad when the great trees, grey and already greasy with rain, swallowed him up like a swamp.
He had deliberately chosen the least frequented side of his palace, but even that was more frequented than he liked.
But there was no particular chance of officious or diplomatic pursuit, for his exit had been a sudden impulse.
All the full-dressed diplomatists he left behind were unimportant.
He had realized suddenly that he could do without them.
For this legend of the gold he had left Grossenmark and invaded Heiligwaldenstein.
For this and only this he had bought the traitor and butchered the hero, for this he had long questioned and cross-questioned the false Chamberlain, until he had come to the conclusion that, touching his ignorance, the renegade really told the truth.
For this he had, somewhat reluctantly, paid and promised money on the chance of gaining the larger amount; and for this he had stolen out of his palace like a thief in the rain, for he had thought of another way to get the desire of his eyes, and to get it cheap.
He, thought Prince Otto, could have no real reason for refusing to give up the gold.
He had known its place for years, and made no effort to find it, even before his new ascetic creed had cut him off from property or pleasures.
True, he had been an enemy, but he now professed a duty of having no enemies.
Some concession to his cause, some appeal to his principles, would probably get the mere money secret out of him.
Otto was no coward, in spite of his network of military precautions, and, in any case, his avarice was stronger than his fears.
Nor was there much cause for fear.
Prince Otto looked down with something of a grim smile at the bright, square labyrinths of the lamp-lit city below him.
For as far as the eye could see there ran the rifles of his friends, and not one pinch of powder for his enemies.
And round the palace rifles at the west door and the east door, at the north door and the south, and all along the four facades linking them.
He found himself on a small platform of rock, broken abruptly by the three corners of precipice.
Behind was the black cave, masked with green thorn, so low that it was hard to believe that a man could enter it.
In front was the fall of the cliffs and the vast but cloudy vision of the valley.
On the small rock platform stood an old bronze lectern or reading-stand, groaning under a great German Bible.
The bronze or copper of it had grown green with the eating airs of that exalted place, and Otto had instantly the thought, " Even if they had arms, they must be rusted by now.
Moonrise had already made a deathly dawn behind the crests and crags, and the rain had ceased.
He was evidently reading some daily lesson as part of his religious exercises.
Instantly his two servants slipped out of the low-browed cavern and supported him.
They wore dull-black gowns like his own, but they had not the frosty silver on the hair, nor the frost-bitten refinement of the features.
They were peasants, Croat or Magyar, with broad, blunt visages and blinking eyes.
For the first time something troubled the Prince, but his courage and diplomatic sense stood firm.
Then, for one instant turning on Otto his drooping, delicate features, and the wintry hair that seemed to drip over his eyebrows like icicles, he added: 'You see, I am dead, too.'
We will not talk about who was right or wrong in that, but at least there was one point on which we were never wrong, because you were always right.
Whatever is to be said of the policy of your family, no one for one moment imagines that you were moved by the mere gold; you have proved yourself above the suspicion that...'
But when the word 'gold'was said he held out his hand as if in arrest of something, and turned away his face to the mountains.
He conceived himself and his like as perpetually conquering peoples who were perpetually being conquered.
Consequently, he was ill acquainted with the emotion of surprise, and ill prepared for the next movement, which startled and stiffened him.
He had opened his mouth to answer the hermit, when the mouth was stopped and the voice strangled by a strong, soft gag suddenly twisted round his head like a tourniquet.
It was fully forty seconds before he even realized that the two Hungarian servants had done it, and that they had done it with his own military scarf.
He was half-way towards the gardens of the palace before he even tried to tear the strangling scarf from his neck and jaws.
He tried again and again, and it was impossible; the men who had knotted that gag knew the difference between what a man can do with his hands in front of him and what he can do with his hands behind his head.
His legs were free to leap like an antelope on the mountains, his arms were free to use any gesture or wave any signal, but he could not speak.
Once more he looked down grimly at the bright, square labyrinths of the lamp-lit city below him, and he smiled no more.
He felt himself repeating the phrases of his former mood with a murderous irony.
Far as the eye could see ran the rifles of his friends, every one of whom would shoot him dead if he could not answer the challenge.
Rifles were so near that the wood and ridge could be patrolled at regular intervals; therefore it was useless to hide in the wood till morning.
Rifles were ranked so far away that an enemy could not slink into the town by any detour; therefore it was vain to return to the city by any remote course.
A cry from him would bring his soldiers rushing up the hill.
But from him no cry would come.
Flowers of some wide and feathery sort-for he had never noticed such things before-were at once luminous and discoloured by the moonshine, and seemed indescribably fantastic as they clustered, as if crawling about the roots of the trees.
Perhaps his reason had been suddenly unseated by the unnatural captivity he carried with him, but in that wood he felt something unfathomably German-the fairy tale.
He knew with half his mind that he was drawing near to the castle of an ogre-he had forgotten that he was the ogre.
He remembered asking his mother if bears lived in the old park at home.
He stooped to pick a flower, as if it were a charm against enchantment.
The stalk was stronger than he expected, and broke with a slight snap.
Carefully trying to place it in his scarf, he heard the halloo, 'Who goes there?'
Then he remembered the scarf was not in its usual place.
The second challenge came; and then a shot that shrieked as it came and then was stilled suddenly by impact.
Otto of Grossenmark lay very peacefully among the fairy trees, and would do no more harm either with gold or steel; only the silver pencil of the moon would pick out and trace here and there the intricate ornament of his uniform, or the old wrinkles on his brow.
May God have mercy on his soul.
The bullet had gone through the gag into the jaw; that is why there was a shot-hole in the scarf, but only one shot.
Naturally, if not correctly, young Schwartz tore off the mysterious silken mask and cast it on the grass; and then he saw whom he had slain.
But I incline to believe that there was a fairy tale, after all, in that little wood, horrible as was its occasion.
Whether the young lady named Hedwig had any previous knowledge of the soldier she saved and eventually married, or whether she came accidentally upon the accident and their intimacy began that night, we shall probably never know.
But we can know, I fancy, that this Hedwig was a heroine, and deserved to marry a man who became something of a hero.
She did the bold and the wise thing.
She persuaded the sentry to go back to his post, in which place there was nothing to connect him with the disaster; he was but one of the most loyal and orderly of fifty such sentries within call.
She remained by the body and gave the alarm; and there was nothing to connect her with the disaster either, since she had not got, and could not have, any firearms.
And he ruminated long before the portrait of a white-haired man with black eyebrows and a pink, painted sort of smile that seemed to contradict the black warning in his eyes.
A cloud was on the mind of men, and wailing went the weather, Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together.
Science announced nonentity and art admired decay; The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay; Round us in antic order their crippled vices came-Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame.
Like the white lock of Whistler, that lit our aimless gloom, Men showed their own white feather as proudly as a plume.
Life was a fly that faded, and death a drone that stung; The world was very old indeed when you and I were young.
They twisted even decent sin to shapes not to be named: Men were ashamed of honour; but we were not ashamed.
Weak if we were and foolish, not thus we failed, not thus; When that black Baal blocked the heavens he had no hymns from us Children we were-our forts of sand were even as weak as eve, High as they went we piled them up to break that bitter sea.
Fools as we were in motley, all jangling and absurd, When all church bells were silent our cap and beds were heard.
Not all unhelped we held the fort, our tiny flags unfurled; Some giants laboured in that cloud to lift it from the world.
Yea, cool and clear and sudden as a bird sings in the grey, Dunedin to Samoa spoke, and darkness unto day.
But we were young; we lived to see God break their bitter charms.
God and the good Republic come riding back in arms: We have seen the City of Mansoul, even as it rocked, relieved-Blessed are they who did not see, but being blind, believed.
This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emptied hells, And none but you shall understand the true thing that it tells-Of what colossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash, Of what huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a pistol flash.
The doubts that were so plain to chase, so dreadful to withstand-Oh, who shall understand but you; yea, who shall understand?
The doubts that drove us through the night as we two talked amain, And day had broken on the streets e'er it broke upon the brain.
Between us, by the peace of God, such truth can now be told; Yea, there is strength in striking root and good in growing old.
We have found common things at last and marriage and a creed, And I may safely write it now, and you may safely read.
THE suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset.
It was built of a bright brick throughout; its sky-line was fantastic, and even its ground plan was wild.
It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently under the impression that the two sovereigns were identical.
It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art.
But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable.
The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit in to them.
Nor when he met the people was he disappointed in this respect.
The place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream.
Even if the people were not " artists," the whole was nevertheless artistic.
That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face-that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.
That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat-that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others.
That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed.
He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself?
Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art.
A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.
More especially this attractive unreality fell upon it about nightfall, when the extravagant roofs were dark against the afterglow and the whole insane village seemed as separate as a drifting cloud.
This again was more strongly true of the many nights of local festivity, when the little gardens were often illuminated, and the big Chinese lanterns glowed in the dwarfish trees like some fierce and monstrous fruit.
And this was strongest of all on one particular evening, still vaguely remembered in the locality, of which the auburn-haired poet was the hero.
It was not by any means the only evening of which he was the hero.
On many nights those passing by his little back garden might hear his high, didactic voice laying down the law to men and particularly to women.
The attitude of women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the place.
Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy.
Yet these new women would always pay to a man the extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever pays to him, that of listening while he is talking.
And Mr. Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, was really (in some sense) a man worth listening to, even if one only laughed at the end of it.
He put the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness with a certain impudent freshness which gave at least a momentary pleasure.
He was helped in some degree by the arresting oddity of his appearance, which he worked, as the phrase goes, for all it was worth.
His dark red hair parted in the middle was literally like a woman's, and curved into the slow curls of a virgin in a pre-Raphaelite picture.
From within this almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt.
This combination at once tickled and terrified the nerves of a neurotic population.
He seemed like a walking blasphemy, a blend of the angel and the ape.
This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset.
It looked like the end of the world.
All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face.
The whole was so close about the earth, as to express nothing but a violent secrecy.
The very empyrean seemed to be a secret.
It expressed that splendid smallness which is the soul of local patriotism.
The very sky seemed small.
I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if only by that oppressive sky.
There are others who may remember it because it marked the first appearance in the place of the second poet of Saffron Park.
For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had reigned without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude suddenly ended.
The new poet, who introduced himself by the name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed beard and faint, yellow hair.
But an impression grew that he was less meek than he looked.
He signalised his entrance by differing with the established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry.
He said that he (Syme) was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said he was a poet of respectability.
So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.
In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two events.
You say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms.
I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden.
The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity.
The third party of the group, Gregory's sister Rosamond, who had her brother's braids of red hair, but a kindlier face underneath them, laughed with such mixture of admiration and disapproval as she gave commonly to the family oracle.
Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.
An anarchist is an artist.
The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything.
He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen.
An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions.
The poet delights in disorder only.
If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.
said Gregory, who was very rational when anyone else attempted paradox.
It is because they know that the train is going right.
It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach.
It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria.
oh, their eyes like stars and their souls again in Eden, if the next station were unaccountably Baker Street!
The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it.
We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird.
Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station?
Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad.
But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo!
No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride.
Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories.
inquired Gregory sarcastically.
You say contemptuously that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria.
I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape.
And when I hear the guard shout out the word'Victoria,' it is not an unmeaning word.
It is to me the cry of a herald announcing conquest.
It is to me indeed'Victoria '; it is the victory of Adam.
Gregory wagged his heavy, red head with a slow and sad smile.
You think Victoria is like the New Jerusalem.
We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like Victoria.
Yes, the poet will be discontented even in the streets of heaven.
The poet is always in revolt.
You might as well say that it is poetical to be sea-sick.
Both being sick and being rebellious may be the wholesome thing on certain desperate occasions; but I'm hanged if I can see why they are poetical.
Revolt in the abstract is-revolting.
The girl winced for a flash at the unpleasant word, but Syme was too hot to heed her.
Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars-the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.
For the first time a red patch appeared on Gregory's forehead.
Syme looked straight into his eyes and smiled sweetly.
Gregory's big bull's eyes blinked suddenly like those of an angry lion, and one could almost fancy that his red mane rose.
cried Gregory, with knotted fists.
said Syme, and strolled away.
With surprise, but with a curious pleasure, he found Rosamond Gregory still in his company.
Do you mean what you say now?
asked the girl, with grave eyes.
When you say'thank you'for the salt, do you mean what you say?
When you say'the world is round,' do you mean what you say?
It is true, but you don't mean it.
Now, sometimes a man like your brother really finds a thing he does mean.
It may be only a half-truth, quarter-truth, tenth-truth; but then he says more than he means-from sheer force of meaning it.
She was looking at him from under level brows; her face was grave and open, and there had fallen upon it the shadow of that unreasoning responsibility which is at the bottom of the most frivolous woman, the maternal watch which is as old as the world.
She drew her broad brows together and said abruptly --
Syme broke into a great laugh, that seemed too large for his slight and somewhat dandified figure.
he said, " that has to be done anonymously.
And at that the corners of her own mouth broke into a smile, and she thought with a simultaneous pleasure of Gregory's absurdity and of his safety.
Syme strolled with her to a seat in the corner of the garden, and continued to pour out his opinions.
For he was a sincere man, and in spite of his superficial airs and graces, at root a humble one.
And it is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely.
He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration.
He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety.
All the time there was a smell of lilac all round him.
Once he heard very faintly in some distant street a barrel-organ begin to play, and it seemed to him that his heroic words were moving to a tiny tune from under or beyond the world.
He stared and talked at the girl's red hair and amused face for what seemed to be a few minutes; and then, feeling that the groups in such a place should mix, rose to his feet.
To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty.
Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology.
He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain.
In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over.
And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night.
For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream.
When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty.
Then he realised (in some odd way) that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one.
Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him.
About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself.
The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark.
Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory.
He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe.
He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned.
asked Syme in a sort of weak wonder.
Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree.
There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself-there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold.
I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree.
Then after a pause he said, " But may I ask if you have been standing out here in the dark only to resume our little argument?
The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious.
Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile.
You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before.
The captain of a penny steamer (if I remember correctly) at Southend.
If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out.
There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose.
I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to prove to you that you were wrong in what you said.
Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully.
You think me a flaneur who lets fall occasional truths.
You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious.
Syme struck his stick violently on the stones of the road.
Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious?
Is the whole caboodle serious?
Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips.
Is it really true that you have one?
If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegations if you will consent to burden your soul with a vow that you should never make and a knowledge you should never dream about, I will promise you in return --
inquired Syme, as the other paused.
Syme suddenly took off his hat.
You say that a poet is always an anarchist.
I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman.
Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police.
And now, in the name of Colney Hatch, what is it?
He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling down the road.
The two got into it in silence.
Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the river.
The cab whisked itself away again, and in it these two fantastics quitted their fantastic town.
THE cab pulled up before a particularly dreary and greasy beershop, into which Gregory rapidly conducted his companion.
They seated themselves in a close and dim sort of bar-parlour, at a stained wooden table with one wooden leg.
The room was so small and dark, that very little could be seen of the attendant who was summoned, beyond a vague and dark impression of something bulky and bearded.
Syme received the remark with stolidity, imagining it to be a joke.
Accepting the vein of humour, he said, with a well-bred indifference --
To his indescribable astonishment, the man only said " Certainly, sir!
and went away apparently to get it.
resumed Gregory, with the same careless yet apologetic air.
But the champagne can really be trusted.
Do let me start you with a half-bottle of Pommery at least?
said the motionless Syme.
His further attempts at conversation, somewhat disorganised in themselves, were cut short finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster.
Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good.
Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite.
he said to Gregory, smiling.
It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster.
It is commonly the other way.
Ah, here comes your champagne!
I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior.
But that is all our modesty.
We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth.
asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass.
Then after a pause he added --
I don't wish you to do yourself an injustice.
said Gregory, producing a cigar-case.
Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke.
It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance.
The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them.
They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom.
But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair.
Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light.
It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door.
In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times.
A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was.
To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, " Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.
The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password.
Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel.
On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked.
With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death.
They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre.
There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds.
They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb.
Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in.
Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here.
It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love.
Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still.
I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg.
That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession.
Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist.
Does this place strike you as being serious?
You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep.
So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries.
First of all, what is it really all about?
What is it you object to?
You want to abolish Government?
said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic.
We dig deeper and we blow you higher.
We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves.
The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man!
We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs.
We have abolished Right and Wrong.
They are much more troublesome to me.
I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house.
You have a heavy iron door.
You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain.
You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike.
May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?
Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me.
Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest.
I dressed up as a bishop.
I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in Superstition the Vampire and Priests of Prey.
I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind.
When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder,'Down!
presumptuous human reason!'
they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all.
Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor.
Then I tried being a major.
Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence-the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know.
I threw myself into the major.
I drew my sword and waved it constantly.
abstractedly, like a man calling for wine.
I often said,'Let the weak perish; it is the Law.'
Well, well, it seems majors don't do this.
At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe.
Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they were heard of.
He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of.
But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands.
He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed --
I said to him,'What disguise will hide me from the world?
What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?'
He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face.
You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?'
He suddenly lifted his lion's voice.
he roared so that the room shook.
And he turned his broad back on me without another word.
I took his advice, and have never regretted it.
I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and-by God- they would let me wheel their perambulators.
Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes.
Then after a pause he added --
He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday.
It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council.
The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly.
Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor.
He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment.
In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes.
We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don't mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be.
He looked down for a moment modestly.
said Syme heartily, " I congratulate you.
Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly.
Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt's revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy.
Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak.
And he clasped his hands.
Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation.
Why do I positively like you, Gregory?
He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, " Is it because you are such an ass?
There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out --
this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly.
Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place.
That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers.
Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?
asked Gregory, wondering.
I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police.
Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?
asked the staring Gregory.
Then after a pause, " Will you swear?
Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly --
Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me.
But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes.
Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers'pockets.
Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators.
We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard.
Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice.
he asked in an inhuman voice.
But I think I hear your friends coming.
From the doorway there came a murmur of " Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.
It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor.
BEFORE one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory's stunned surprise had fallen from him.
He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast.
He caught up the Colt's revolver and took aim at Syme.
Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand.
Don't you see that we're both in the same boat?
Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question.
You can't tell the anarchists I'm a policeman.
I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am.
In short, it's a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours.
I'm a policeman deprived of the help of the police.
You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy.
The one solitary difference is in your favour.
You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists.
I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself.
wait and see me betray myself.
Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster.
The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses-a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy-detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand.
Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly --
The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion.
I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday.
The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group.
Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.
When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought.
He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy.
It was clear that Syme's inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas.
Little was to be hoped from them.
After all, it was only one night's discussion, and only one detective who would know of it.
He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it.
He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches.
I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair.
This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat.
This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council.
We have elected many and splendid Thursdays.
We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week.
As you know, his services to the cause were considerable.
He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier.
As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage he regarded as barbaric, and as involving cruelty to the cow.
Cruelty, or anything approaching to cruelty, revolted him always.
But it is not to acclaim his virtues that we are met, but for a harder task.
It is difficult properly to praise his qualities, but it is more difficult to replace them.
Upon you, comrades, it devolves this evening to choose out of the company present the man who shall be Thursday.
If any comrade suggests a name I will put it to the vote.
If no comrade suggests a name, I can only tell myself that that dear dynamiter, who is gone from us, has carried into the unknowable abysses the last secret of his virtue and his innocence.
There was a stir of almost inaudible applause, such as is sometimes heard in church.
Then a large old man, with a long and venerable white beard, perhaps the only real working-man present, rose lumberingly and said --
A little man with a velvet coat and pointed beard seconded.
Gregory rose amid a great rumble of applause.
His face was deadly pale, so that by contrast his queer red hair looked almost scarlet.
But he was smiling and altogether at ease.
He had made up his mind, and he saw his best policy quite plain in front of him like a white road.
His best chance was to make a softened and ambiguous speech, such as would leave on the detective's mind the impression that the anarchist brotherhood was a very mild affair after all.
He believed in his own literary power, his capacity for suggesting fine shades and picking perfect words.
He thought that with care he could succeed, in spite of all the people around him, in conveying an impression of the institution, subtly and delicately false.
Syme had once thought that anarchists, under all their bravado, were only playing the fool.
Could he not now, in the hour of peril, make Syme think so again?
Our belief has been slandered, it has been disfigured, it has been utterly confused and concealed, but it has never been altered.
Those who talk about anarchism and its dangers go everywhere and anywhere to get their information, except to us, except to the fountain head.
They learn about anarchists from sixpenny novels; they learn about anarchists from tradesmen's newspapers; they learn about anarchists from Ally Sloper's Half-Holiday and the Sporting Times.
They never learn about anarchists from anarchists.
We have no chance of denying the mountainous slanders which are heaped upon our heads from one end of Europe to another.
The man who has always heard that we are walking plagues has never heard our reply.
I know that he will not hear it tonight, though my passion were to rend the roof.
For it is deep, deep under the earth that the persecuted are permitted to assemble, as the Christians assembled in the Catacombs.
But if, by some incredible accident, there were here tonight a man who all his life had thus immensely misunderstood us, I would put this question to him:'When those Christians met in those Catacombs, what sort of moral reputation had they in the streets above?
What tales were told of their atrocities by one educated Roman to another?
Suppose'(I would say to him),'suppose that we are only repeating that still mysterious paradox of history.
Suppose we seem as shocking as the Christians because we are really as harmless as the Christians.
Suppose we seem as mad as the Christians because we are really as meek.'
The applause that had greeted the opening sentences had been gradually growing fainter, and at the last word it stopped suddenly.
In the abrupt silence, the man with the velvet jacket said, in a high, squeaky voice --
Ah, how little he knows himself!
His words are, indeed, extravagant; his appearance is ferocious, and even (to an ordinary taste) unattractive.
But only the eye of a friendship as deep and delicate as mine can perceive the deep foundation of solid meekness which lies at the base of him, too deep even for himself to see.
I repeat, we are the true early Christians, only that we come too late.
We are simple, as they revere simple-look at Comrade Witherspoon.
We are modest, as they were modest-look at me.
called out Mr. Witherspoon with the velvet jacket.
Yet this did not prevent their being accused of eating human flesh.
We do not eat human flesh --
In our society, at any rate, which loves him sincerely, which is founded upon love --
said Witherspoon, " down with love.
Superbly careless of the slanders that represent us as assassins and enemies of human society, we shall pursue with moral courage and quiet intellectual pressure, the permanent ideals of brotherhood and simplicity.
Gregory resumed his seat and passed his hand across his forehead.
The silence was sudden and awkward, but the chairman rose like an automaton, and said in a colourless voice --
The assembly seemed vague and sub-consciously disappointed, and Comrade Witherspoon moved restlessly on his seat and muttered in his thick beard.
By the sheer rush of routine, however, the motion would have been put and carried.
But as the chairman was opening his mouth to put it, Syme sprang to his feet and said in a small and quiet voice --
The most effective fact in oratory is an unexpected change in the voice.
Mr. Gabriel Syme evidently understood oratory.
Having said these first formal words in a moderated tone and with a brief simplicity, he made his next word ring and volley in the vault as if one of the guns had gone off.
he cried, in a voice that made every man jump out of his boots, " have we come here for this?
Do we live underground like rats in order to listen to talk like this?
This is talk we might listen to while eating buns at a Sunday School treat.
Do we line these walls with weapons and bar that door with death lest anyone should come and hear Comrade Gregory saying to us,'Be good, and you will be happy,''Honesty is the best policy,' and'Virtue is its own reward '?
There was not a word in Comrade Gregory's address to which a curate could not have listened with pleasure (hear, hear).
But I am not a curate (loud cheers), and I did not listen to it with pleasure (renewed cheers).
The man who is fitted to make a good curate is not fitted to make a resolute, forcible, and efficient Thursday (hear, hear).
But I say that we are the enemies of society, and so much the worse for society.
We are the enemies of society, for society is the enemy of humanity, its oldest and its most pitiless enemy (hear, hear).
Comrade Gregory has told us (apologetically again) that we are not murderers.
We are not murderers, we are executioners (cheers).
Ever since Syme had risen Gregory had sat staring at him, his face idiotic with astonishment.
Now in the pause his lips of clay parted, and he said, with an automatic and lifeless distinctness --
Syme looked straight into those frightful eyes with his own pale blue ones, and said with dignity --
He knows as well as I do that I am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty.
I say that Comrade Gregory is unfit to be Thursday for all his amiable qualities.
He is unfit to be Thursday because of his amiable qualities.
We do not want the Supreme Council of Anarchy infected with a maudlin mercy (hear, hear).
This is no time for ceremonial politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty.
I set myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all the Governments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride (cheers).
I am a cause (renewed cheers).
His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause.
The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries.
At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting.
he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat.
But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder --
I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies.'
The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said --
cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands.
The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.
A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet.
Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream.
he said, in a voice as heavy as stone.
Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face.
Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone --
Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate.
No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it.
I will call it a command.
Call it a mad command, but act upon it.
Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed.
But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes.
Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory --
You are not Sunday "; and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, " And you are not Thursday.
If you will not take my command, accept my degradation.
I throw myself at your feet.
For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence.
Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again --
The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe.
Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table.
The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room.
Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred.
They were silent for many minutes.
You made me swear before I made you.
Perhaps we are both doing what we think right.
But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession.
There is nothing possible between us but honour and death," and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.
With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels.
At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre.
Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye.
Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory.
You have kept it even down to a small particular.
There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it.
cried the chaotic Gregory.
GABRIEL SYME was not merely a detective who pretended to be a poet; he was really a poet who had become a detective.
Nor was his hatred of anarchy hypocritical.
He was one of those who are driven early in life into too conservative an attitude by the bewildering folly of most revolutionists.
He had not attained it by any tame tradition.
His respectability was spontaneous and sudden, a rebellion against rebellion.
He came of a family of cranks, in which all the oldest people had all the newest notions.
One of his uncles always walked about without a hat, and another had made an unsuccessful attempt to walk about with a hat and nothing else.
His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene.
Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike.
The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism.
Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left-sanity.
But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible.
His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident.
It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage.
He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces.
After that he went about as usual-quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane.
He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism.
He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion.
He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge of barbaric denial.
But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living.
As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist with a bomb in his pocket so savage or so solitary as he.
Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall.
He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise.
He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset.
The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger.
The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored.
It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country.
Syme was shabby in those days.
He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton.
Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park.
A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war.
Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said " Good evening.
Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight.
Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river!
I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on.
You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm.
The Board Schools came after my time.
What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid.
The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them.
The policeman sighed and shook his head.
asked Syme with rude curiosity.
I trust I make myself clear.
But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do.
How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?
We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies.
But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind.
I think you might almost join us.
He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State.
He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers.
It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense.
I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue.
But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt.
Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity.
The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists.
The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed.
We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed.
We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime.
We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartle pool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet.
I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate.
But this new movement of ours is a very different affair.
We deny the snobbish English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals.
We remember the Roman Emperors.
We remember the great poisoning princes of the Renaissance.
We say that the dangerous criminal is the educated criminal.
We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher.
Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them.
They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly.
Thieves respect property.
They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it.
But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession.
Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy.
But philosophers despise marriage as marriage.
Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives.
But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people's.
Syme struck his hands together.
The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional good man.
He says that if only a certain obstacle be removed-say a wealthy uncle-he is then prepared to accept the universe and to praise God.
He is a reformer, but not an anarchist.
He wishes to cleanse the edifice, but not to destroy it.
But the evil philosopher is not trying to alter things, but to annihilate them.
Yes, the modern world has retained all those parts of police work which are really oppressive and ignominious, the harrying of the poor, the spying upon the unfortunate.
It has given up its more dignified work, the punishment of powerful traitors the in the State and powerful heresiarchs in the Church.
The moderns say we must not punish heretics.
My only doubt is whether we have a right to punish anybody else.
cried the policeman, clasping his hands with an excitement uncommon in persons of his figure and costume, " but it is intolerable!
I don't know what you're doing, but you're wasting your life.
You must, you shall, join our special army against anarchy.
Their armies are on our frontiers.
Their bolt is ready to fall.
A moment more, and you may lose the glory of working with us, perhaps the glory of dying with the last heroes of the world.
I know as well as anybody that the modern world is full of lawless little men and mad little movements.
But, beastly as they are, they generally have the one merit of disagreeing with each other.
How can you talk of their leading one army or hurling one bolt.
This is a vast philosophic movement, consisting of an outer and an inner ring.
You might even call the outer ring the laity and the inner ring the priesthood.
I prefer to call the outer ring the innocent section, the inner ring the supremely guilty section.
The outer ring-the main mass of their supporters-are merely anarchists; that is, men who believe that rules and formulas have destroyed human happiness.
They believe that all the evil results of human crime are the results of the system that has called it crime.
They do not believe that the crime creates the punishment.
They believe that the punishment has created the crime.
They believe that if a man seduced seven women he would naturally walk away as blameless as the flowers of spring.
They believe that if a man picked a pocket he would naturally feel exquisitely good.
These I call the innocent section.
And so also the men of the inner circle speak-the sacred priesthood.
They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last.
But in their mouths "and the policeman lowered his voice --" in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning.
They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle.
When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide.
When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave.
They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves.
That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols.
The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody.
asked Syme, with a sort of passion.
You should really come and see him.
Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like.
inquired Syme, with interest.
He says it makes his thoughts brighter.
Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard.
Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light.
It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind.
And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him.
said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it.
Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.
I am condemning you to death.
Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy.
Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, " The Last Crusade," and a number, the sign of his official authority.
He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London.
Where his adventure ultimately led him we have already seen.
At about half-past one on a February night he found himself steaming in a small tug up the silent Thames, armed with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central Council of Anarchists.
When Syme stepped out on to the steam-tug he had a singular sensation of stepping out into something entirely new; not merely into the landscape of a new land, but even into the landscape of a new planet.
This was mainly due to the insane yet solid decision of that evening, though partly also to an entire change in the weather and the sky since he entered the little tavern some two hours before.
Every trace of the passionate plumage of the cloudy sunset had been swept away, and a naked moon stood in a naked sky.
The moon was so strong and full that (by a paradox often to be noticed) it seemed like a weaker sun.
It gave, not the sense of bright moonshine, but rather of a dead daylight.
But the more he felt this glittering desolation in the moonlit land, the more his own chivalric folly glowed in the night like a great fire.
Even the common things he carried with him-the food and the brandy and the loaded pistol-took on exactly that concrete and material poetry which a child feels when he takes a gun upon a journey or a bun with him to bed.
The sword-stick and the brandy-flask, though in themselves only the tools of morbid conspirators, became the expressions of his own more healthy romance.
The sword-stick became almost the sword of chivalry, and the brandy the wine of the stirrup-cup.
For even the most dehumanised modern fantasies depend on some older and simpler figure; the adventures may be mad, but the adventurer must be sane.
The dragon without St. George would not even be grotesque.
So this inhuman landscape was only imaginative by the presence of a man really human.
To Syme's exaggerative mind the bright, bleak houses and terraces by the Thames looked as empty as the mountains of the moon.
But even the moon is only poetical because there is a man in the moon.
The tug was worked by two men, and with much toil went comparatively slowly.
The clear moon that had lit up Chiswick had gone down by the time that they passed Battersea, and when they came under the enormous bulk of Westminster day had already begun to break.
It broke like the splitting of great bars of lead, showing bars of silver; and these had brightened like white fire when the tug, changing its onward course, turned inward to a large landing stage rather beyond Charing Cross.
The great stones of the Embankment seemed equally dark and gigantic as Syme looked up at them.
They were big and black against the huge white dawn.
They made him feel that he was landing on the colossal steps of some Egyptian palace; and, indeed, the thing suited his mood, for he was, in his own mind, mounting to attack the solid thrones of horrible and heathen kings.
He leapt out of the boat on to one slimy step, and stood, a dark and slender figure, amid the enormous masonry.
The two men in the tug put her off again and turned up stream.
They had never spoken a word.
AT first the large stone stair seemed to Syme as deserted as a pyramid; but before he reached the top he had realised that there was a man leaning over the parapet of the Embankment and looking out across the river.
As a figure he was quite conventional, clad in a silk hat and frock-coat of the more formal type of fashion; he had a red flower in his buttonhole.
This scrap of hair almost seemed a mere oversight; the rest of the face was of the type that is best shaven-clear-cut, ascetic, and in its way noble.
Syme drew closer and closer, noting all this, and still the figure did not stir.
At first an instinct had told Syme that this was the man whom he was meant to meet.
Then, seeing that the man made no sign, he had concluded that he was not.
And now again he had come back to a certainty that the man had something to do with his mad adventure.
For the man remained more still than would have been natural if a stranger had come so close.
He was as motionless as a wax-work, and got on the nerves somewhat in the same way.
Syme looked again and again at the pale, dignified and delicate face, and the face still looked blankly across the river.
Then he took out of his pocket the note from Buttons proving his election, and put it before that sad and beautiful face.
Then the man smiled, and his smile was a shock, for it was all on one side, going up in the right cheek and down in the left.
There was nothing, rationally speaking, to scare anyone about this.
Many people have this nervous trick of a crooked smile, and in many it is even attractive.
But in all Syme's circumstances, with the dark dawn and the deadly errand and the loneliness on the great dripping stones, there was something unnerving in it.
There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face.
And there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong.
The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man's face dropped at once into its harmonious melancholy.
He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a man speaking to an old colleague.
Sunday always insists on an early breakfast.
He spoke with casual civility, but in an utterly dead voice that contradicted the fanaticism of his face.
It seemed almost as if all friendly words were to him lifeless conveniences, and that his only life was hate.
After a pause the man spoke again.
But the one thing that can never be told is the last notion of the President, for his notions grow like a tropical forest.
So in case you don't know, I'd better tell you that he is carrying out his notion of concealing ourselves by not concealing ourselves to the most extraordinary lengths just now.
Originally, of course, we met in a cell underground, just as your branch does.
Then Sunday made us take a private room at an ordinary restaurant.
He said that if you didn't seem to be hiding nobody hunted you out.
Well, he is the only man on earth, I know; but sometimes I really think that his huge brain is going a little mad in its old age.
For now we flaunt ourselves before the public.
We have our breakfast on a balcony-on a balcony, if you please-overlooking Leicester Square.
God blast your impudence!
cried out the other in a sudden, shrill voice which was as startling and discordant as his crooked smile.
With this they emerged out of a narrow street, and saw the early sunlight filling Leicester Square.
It will never be known, I suppose, why this square itself should look so alien and in some ways so continental.
It will never be known whether it was the foreign look that attracted the foreigners or the foreigners who gave it the foreign look.
But on this particular morning the effect seemed singularly bright and clear.
Between the open square and the sunlit leaves and the statue and the Saracenic outlines of the Alhambra, it looked the replica of some French or even Spanish public place.
And this effect increased in Syme the sensation, which in many shapes he had had through the whole adventure, the eerie sensation of having strayed into a new world.
As a fact, he had bought bad cigars round Leicester Square ever since he was a boy.
But as he turned that corner, and saw the trees and the Moorish cupolas, he could have sworn that he was turning into an unknown Place de something or other in some foreign town.
At one corner of the square there projected a kind of angle of a prosperous but quiet hotel, the bulk of which belonged to a street behind.
In the wall there was one large French window, probably the window of a large coffee-room; and outside this window, almost literally overhanging the square, was a formidably buttressed balcony, big enough to contain a dining-table.
Some of their jokes could almost be heard across the square.
Then the grave Secretary gave his unnatural smile, and Syme knew that this boisterous breakfast party was the secret conclave of the European Dynamiters.
Then, as Syme continued to stare at them, he saw something that he had not seen before.
He had not seen it literally because it was too large to see.
At the nearest end of the balcony, blocking up a great part of the perspective, was the back of a great mountain of a man.
When Syme had seen him, his first thought was that the weight of him must break down the balcony of stone.
His vastness did not lie only in the fact that he was abnormally tall and quite incredibly fat.
This man was planned enormously in his original proportions, like a statue carved deliberately as colossal.
His head, crowned with white hair, as seen from behind looked bigger than a head ought to be.
The ears that stood out from it looked larger than human ears.
He was enlarged terribly to scale; and this sense of size was so staggering, that when Syme saw him all the other figures seemed quite suddenly to dwindle and become dwarfish.
They were still sitting there as before with their flowers and frock-coats, but now it looked as if the big man was entertaining five children to tea.
As Syme and the guide approached the side door of the hotel, a waiter came out smiling with every tooth in his head.
They do say they will throw bombs at ze king.
And the waiter hurried away with a napkin over his arm, much pleased with the singular frivolity of the gentlemen upstairs.
The two men mounted the stairs in silence.
Syme had never thought of asking whether the monstrous man who almost filled and broke the balcony was the great President of whom the others stood in awe.
He knew it was so, with an unaccountable but instantaneous certainty.
Syme, indeed, was one of those men who are open to all the more nameless psychological influences in a degree a little dangerous to mental health.
Utterly devoid of fear in physical dangers, he was a great deal too sensitive to the smell of spiritual evil.
Twice already that night little unmeaning things had peeped out at him almost pruriently, and given him a sense of drawing nearer and nearer to the head-quarters of hell.
And this sense became overpowering as he drew nearer to the great President.
The form it took was a childish and yet hateful fancy.
As he walked across the inner room towards the balcony, the large face of Sunday grew larger and larger; and Syme was gripped with a fear that when he was quite close the face would be too big to be possible, and that he would scream aloud.
He remembered that as a child he would not look at the mask of Memnon in the British Museum, because it was a face, and so large.
By an effort, braver than that of leaping over a cliff, he went to an empty seat at the breakfast-table and sat down.
The men greeted him with good-humoured raillery as if they had always known him.
He sobered himself a little by looking at their conventional coats and solid, shining coffee-pot; then he looked again at Sunday.
His face was very large, but it was still possible to humanity.
One man indeed stood out at even a superficial glance.
He at least was the common or garden Dynamiter.
But the eyes did look out of the tangle, and they were the sad eyes of some Russian serf.
The effect of this figure was not terrible like that of the President, but it had every diablerie that can come from the utterly grotesque.
If out of that stiff tie and collar there had come abruptly the head of a cat or a dog, it could not have been a more idiotic contrast.
The man's name, it seemed, was Gogol; he was a Pole, and in this circle of days he was called Tuesday.
His soul and speech were incurably tragic; he could not force himself to play the prosperous and frivolous part demanded of him by President Sunday.
And, indeed, when Syme came in the President, with that daring disregard of public suspicion which was his policy, was actually chaffing Gogol upon his inability to assume conventional graces.
He dresses up like a gentleman, but he seems to be too great a soul to behave like one.
He insists on the ways of the stage conspirator.
Now if a gentleman goes about London in a top hat and a frock-coat, no one need know that he is an anarchist.
But if a gentleman puts on a top hat and a frock-coat, and then goes about on his hands and knees-well, he may attract attention.
That's what Brother Gogol does.
He goes about on his hands and knees with such inexhaustible diplomacy, that by this time he finds it quite difficult to walk upright.
You try to combine two inconsistent methods.
When a householder finds a man under his bed, he will probably pause to note the circumstance.
But if he finds a man under his bed in a top hat, you will agree with me, my dear Tuesday, that he is not likely even to forget it.
Now when you were found under Admiral Biffin's bed --
While this stream of conversation continued, Syme was looking more steadily at the men around him.
As he did so, he gradually felt all his sense of something spiritually queer return.
He had thought at first that they were all of common stature and costume, with the evident exception of the hairy Gogol.
But as he looked at the others, he began to see in each of them exactly what he had seen in the man by the river, a demoniac detail somewhere.
That lop-sided laugh, which would suddenly disfigure the fine face of his original guide, was typical of all these types.
Each man had something about him, perceived perhaps at the tenth or twentieth glance, which was not normal, and which seemed hardly human.
The only metaphor he could think of was this, that they all looked as men of fashion and presence would look, with the additional twist given in a false and curved mirror.
Only the individual examples will express this half-concealed eccentricity.
Syme's original cicerone bore the title of Monday; he was the Secretary of the Council, and his twisted smile was regarded with more terror than anything, except the President's horrible, happy laughter.
But now that Syme had more space and light to observe him, there were other touches.
His fine face was so emaciated, that Syme thought it must be wasted with some disease; yet somehow the very distress of his dark eyes denied this.
It was no physical ill that troubled him.
His eyes were alive with intellectual torture, as if pure thought was pain.
He was typical of each of the tribe; each man was subtly and differently wrong.
Next to him sat Tuesday, the tousle-headed Gogol, a man more obviously mad.
Next was Wednesday, a certain Marquis de St. Eustache, a sufficiently characteristic figure.
The first few glances found nothing unusual about him, except that he was the only man at table who wore the fashionable clothes as if they were really his own.
He had a black French beard cut square and a black English frock-coat cut even squarer.
But Syme, sensitive to such things, felt somehow that the man carried a rich atmosphere with him, a rich atmosphere that suffocated.
It reminded one irrationally of drowsy odours and of dying lamps in the darker poems of Byron and Poe.
With this went a sense of his being clad, not in lighter colours, but in softer materials; his black seemed richer and warmer than the black shades about him, as if it were compounded of profound colour.
His black coat looked as if it were only black by being too dense a purple.
His black beard looked as if it were only black by being too deep a blue.
And in the gloom and thickness of the beard his dark red mouth showed sensual and scornful.
Whatever he was he was not a Frenchman; he might be a Jew; he might be something deeper yet in the dark heart of the East.
In the bright coloured Persian tiles and pictures showing tyrants hunting, you may see just those almond eyes, those blue-black beards, those cruel, crimson lips.
Then came Syme, and next a very old man, Professor de Worms, who still kept the chair of Friday, though every day it was expected that his death would leave it empty.
Save for his intellect, he was in the last dissolution of senile decay.
His face was as grey as his long grey beard, his forehead was lifted and fixed finally in a furrow of mild despair.
In no other case, not even that of Gogol, did the bridegroom brilliancy of the morning dress express a more painful contrast.
For the red flower in his button-hole showed up against a face that was literally discoloured like lead; the whole hideous effect was as if some drunken dandies had put their clothes upon a corpse.
When he rose or sat down, which was with long labour and peril, something worse was expressed than mere weakness, something indefinably connected with the horror of the whole scene.
It did not express decrepitude merely, but corruption.
Another hateful fancy crossed Syme's quivering mind.
He could not help thinking that whenever the man moved a leg or arm might fall off.
Right at the end sat the man called Saturday, the simplest and the most baffling of all.
He was a short, square man with a dark, square face clean-shaven, a medical practitioner going by the name of Bull.
He had that combination of savoir-faire with a sort of well-groomed coarseness which is not uncommon in young doctors.
He carried his fine clothes with confidence rather than ease, and he mostly wore a set smile.
There was nothing whatever odd about him, except that he wore a pair of dark, almost opaque spectacles.
It may have been merely a crescendo of nervous fancy that had gone before, but those black discs were dreadful to Syme; they reminded him of half-remembered ugly tales, of some story about pennies being put on the eyes of the dead.
Syme's eye always caught the black glasses and the blind grin.
Had the dying Professor worn them, or even the pale Secretary, they would have been appropriate.
But on the younger and grosser man they seemed only an enigma.
They took away the key of the face.
You could not tell what his smile or his gravity meant.
Partly from this, and partly because he had a vulgar virility wanting in most of the others it seemed to Syme that he might be the wickedest of all those wicked men.
Syme even had the thought that his eyes might be covered up because they were too frightful to see.
SUCH were the six men who had sworn to destroy the world.
Again and again Syme strove to pull together his common sense in their presence.
Sometimes he saw for an instant that these notions were subjective, that he was only looking at ordinary men, one of whom was old, another nervous, another short-sighted.
The sense of an unnatural symbolism always settled back on him again.
Each figure seemed to be, somehow, on the borderland of things, just as their theory was on the borderland of thought.
He knew that each one of these men stood at the extreme end, so to speak, of some wild road of reasoning.
So these figures seemed to stand up, violent and unaccountable, against an ultimate horizon, visions from the verge.
The ends of the earth were closing in.
Talk had been going on steadily as he took in the scene; and not the least of the contrasts of that bewildering breakfast-table was the contrast between the easy and unobtrusive tone of talk and its terrible purport.
They were deep in the discussion of an actual and immediate plot.
The waiter downstairs had spoken quite correctly when he said that they were talking about bombs and kings.
Only three days afterwards the Czar was to meet the President of the French Republic in Paris, and over their bacon and eggs upon their sunny balcony these beaming gentlemen had decided how both should die.
Even the instrument was chosen; the black-bearded Marquis, it appeared, was to carry the bomb.
Ordinarily speaking, the proximity of this positive and objective crime would have sobered Syme, and cured him of all his merely mystical tremors.
He would have thought of nothing but the need of saving at least two human bodies from being ripped in pieces with iron and roaring gas.
But the truth was that by this time he had begun to feel a third kind of fear, more piercing and practical than either his moral revulsion or his social responsibility.
Very simply, he had no fear to spare for the French President or the Czar; he had begun to fear for himself.
Most of the talkers took little heed of him, debating now with their faces closer together, and almost uniformly grave, save when for an instant the smile of the Secretary ran aslant across his face as the jagged lightning runs aslant across the sky.
But there was one persistent thing which first troubled Syme and at last terrified him.
The President was always looking at him, steadily, and with a great and baffling interest.
The enormous man was quite quiet, but his blue eyes stood out of his head.
And they were always fixed on Syme.
Syme felt moved to spring up and leap over the balcony.
When the President's eyes were on him he felt as if he were made of glass.
He had hardly the shred of a doubt that in some silent and extraordinary way Sunday had found out that he was a spy.
He looked over the edge of the balcony, and saw a policeman, standing abstractedly just beneath, staring at the bright railings and the sunlit trees.
Then there fell upon him the great temptation that was to torment him for many days.
In the presence of these powerful and repulsive men, who were the princes of anarchy, he had almost forgotten the frail and fanciful figure of the poet Gregory, the mere aesthete of anarchism.
He even thought of him now with an old kindness, as if they had played together when children.
But he remembered that he was still tied to Gregory by a great promise.
He had promised never to do the very thing that he now felt himself almost in the act of doing.
He had promised not to jump over that balcony and speak to that policeman.
He took his cold hand off the cold stone balustrade.
His soul swayed in a vertigo of moral indecision.
He had only to snap the thread of a rash vow made to a villainous society, and all his life could be as open and sunny as the square beneath him.
He had, on the other hand, only to keep his antiquated honour, and be delivered inch by inch into the power of this great enemy of mankind, whose very intellect was a torture-chamber.
Whenever he looked down into the square he saw the comfortable policeman, a pillar of common sense and common order.
Whenever he looked back at the breakfast-table he saw the President still quietly studying him with big, unbearable eyes.
In all the torrent of his thought there were two thoughts that never crossed his mind.
First, it never occurred to him to doubt that the President and his Council could crush him if he continued to stand alone.
The place might be public, the project might seem impossible.
But Sunday was not the man who would carry himself thus easily without having, somehow or somewhere, set open his iron trap.
Either by anonymous poison or sudden street accident, by hypnotism or by fire from hell, Sunday could certainly strike him.
If he defied the man he was probably dead, either struck stiff there in his chair or long afterwards as by an innocent ailment.
If he called in the police promptly, arrested everyone, told all, and set against them the whole energy of England, he would probably escape; certainly not otherwise.
They were a balconyful of gentlemen overlooking a bright and busy square; but he felt no more safe with them than if they had been a boatful of armed pirates overlooking an empty sea.
There was a second thought that never came to him.
It never occurred to him to be spiritually won over to the enemy.
Many moderns, inured to a weak worship of intellect and force, might have wavered in their allegiance under this oppression of a great personality.
They might have called Sunday the super-man.
If any such creature be conceivable, he looked, indeed, somewhat like it, with his earth-shaking abstraction, as of a stone statue walking.
He might have been called something above man, with his large plans, which were too obvious to be detected, with his large face, which was too frank to be understood.
But this was a kind of modern meanness to which Syme could not sink even in his extreme morbidity.
Like any man, he was coward enough to fear great force; but he was not quite coward enough to admire it.
The men were eating as they talked, and even in this they were typical.
Dr. Bull and the Marquis ate casually and conventionally of the best things on the table-cold pheasant or Strasbourg pie.
But the Secretary was a vegetarian, and he spoke earnestly of the projected murder over half a raw tomato and three quarters of a glass of tepid water.
The old Professor had such slops as suggested a sickening second childhood.
And even in this President Sunday preserved his curious predominance of mere mass.
For he ate like twenty men; he ate incredibly, with a frightful freshness of appetite, so that it was like watching a sausage factory.
Yet continually, when he had swallowed a dozen crumpets or drunk a quart of coffee, he would be found with his great head on one side staring at Syme.
Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife.
And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round.
Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol.
It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the Christians.
It expands; it only destroys because it broadens; even so, thought only destroys because it broadens.
A man's brain is a bomb," he cried out, loosening suddenly his strange passion and striking his own skull with violence.
A man's brain must expand, if it breaks up the universe.
I thought of one yesterday in bed.
The old Professor was staring at the ceiling with dull eyes.
There was a singular silence, and then the Secretary said --
The only question is how Wednesday is to strike the blow.
I take it we should all agree with the original notion of a bomb.
As to the actual arrangements, I should suggest that tomorrow morning he should go first of all to --
The speech was broken off short under a vast shadow.
President Sunday had risen to his feet, seeming to fill the sky above them.
I have something vent particular to say.
Syme stood up before any of the others.
The instant of choice had come at last, the pistol was at his head.
On the pavement before he could hear the policeman idly stir and stamp, for the morning, though bright, was cold.
A barrel-organ in the street suddenly sprang with a jerk into a jovial tune.
Syme stood up taut, as if it had been a bugle before the battle.
He found himself filled with a supernatural courage that came from nowhere.
That jingling music seemed full of the vivacity, the vulgarity, and the irrational valour of the poor, who in all those unclean streets were all clinging to the decencies and the charities of Christendom.
His youthful prank of being a policeman had faded from his mind; he did not think of himself as the representative of the corps of gentlemen turned into fancy constables, or of the old eccentric who lived in the dark room.
But he did feel himself as the ambassador of all these common and kindly people in the street, who every day marched into battle to the music of the barrel-organ.
And this high pride in being human had lifted him unaccountably to an infinite height above the monstrous men around him.
For an instant, at least, he looked down upon all their sprawling eccentricities from the starry pinnacle of the commonplace.
He felt towards them all that unconscious and elementary superiority that a brave man feels over powerful beasts or a wise man over powerful errors.
He knew that he had neither the intellectual nor the physical strength of President Sunday; but in that moment he minded it no more than the fact that he had not the muscles of a tiger or a horn on his nose like a rhinoceros.
All was swallowed up in an ultimate certainty that the President was wrong and that the barrel-organ was right.
There clanged in his mind that unanswerable and terrible truism in the song of Roland --
which in the old nasal French has the clang and groan of great iron.
This liberation of his spirit from the load of his weakness went with a quite clear decision to embrace death.
If the people of the barrel-organ could keep their old-world obligations, so could he.
This very pride in keeping his word was that he was keeping it to miscreants.
It was his last triumph over these lunatics to go down into their dark room and die for something that they could not even understand.
The barrel-organ seemed to give the marching tune with the energy and the mingled noises of a whole orchestra; and he could hear deep and rolling, under all the trumpets of the pride of life, the drums of the pride of death.
The conspirators were already filing through the open window and into the rooms behind.
Syme went last, outwardly calm, but with all his brain and body throbbing with romantic rhythm.
The President led them down an irregular side stair, such as might be used by servants, and into a dim, cold, empty room, with a table and benches, like an abandoned boardroom.
When they were all in, he closed and locked the door.
The first to speak was Gogol, the irreconcilable, who seemed bursting with inarticulate grievance.
he cried, with an obscure excitement, his heavy Polish accent becoming almost impenetrable.
You zay you show himselves.
Ven you vant talk importance you run yourselves in a dark box!
The President seemed to take the foreigner's incoherent satire with entire good humour.
If we had come here first, we should have had the whole staff at the keyhole.
You don't seem to know anything about mankind.
I care not for these games of gonzealment.
I would zmite ze tyrant in ze open square.
And now may I ask you to control your beautiful sentiments, and sit down with the other gentlemen at this table.
For the first time this morning something intelligent is going to be said.
Syme, with the perturbed promptitude he had shown since the original summons, sat down first.
Gogol sat down last, grumbling in his brown beard about gombromise.
No one except Syme seemed to have any notion of the blow that was about to fall.
As for him, he had merely the feeling of a man mounting the scaffold with the intention, at any rate, of making a good speech.
I have called you down here to tell you something so simple and shocking that even the waiters upstairs (long inured to our levities) might hear some new seriousness in my voice.
Comrades, we were discussing plans and naming places.
I propose, before saying anything else, that those plans and places should not be voted by this meeting, but should be left wholly in the control of some one reliable member.
I suggest Comrade Saturday, Dr.
They all stared at him; then they all started in their seats, for the next words, though not loud, had a living and sensational emphasis.
Not one tiny detail more about what we mean to do must be mentioned in this company.
Sunday had spent his life in astonishing his followers; but it seemed as if he had never really astonished them until now.
They all moved feverishly in their seats, except Syme.
He sat stiff in his, with his hand in his pocket, and on the handle of his loaded revolver.
When the attack on him came he would sell his life dear.
He would find out at least if the President was mortal.
Sunday went on smoothly --
Strangers overhearing us matters nothing.
They assume that we are joking.
But what would matter, even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who --
The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman.
The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish.
There is a traitor at this table.
I will waste no more words.
Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.
Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand.
With the same flash three men sprang at his throat.
Even the Professor made an effort to rise.
But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief.
said Sunday in a voice that he used once or twice in his life, a voice that made men drop drawn swords.
The three who had risen fell away from Gogol, and that equivocal person himself resumed his seat.
The alleged Pole was a little pale under his tangle of dark hair, but he put two fingers into the pocket with apparent coolness and pulled out a blue strip of card.
When Syme saw it lying on the table, he woke up again to the world outside him.
For although the card lay at the other extreme of the table, and he could read nothing of the inscription on it, it bore a startling resemblance to the blue card in his own pocket, the card which had been given to him when he joined the anti-anarchist constabulary.
It made everyone jump to hear a clear, commercial and somewhat cockney voice coming out of that forest of foreign hair.
It was irrational, as if a Chinaman had suddenly spoken with a Scotch accent.
All I say is, I don't believe any Pole could have imitated my accent like I did his.
Do you mind leaving your beard with your card?
The consequence is that it would annoy me for just about two and a half minutes if I heard that you had died in torments.
Well, if you ever tell the police or any human soul about us, I shall have that two and a half minutes of discomfort.
On your discomfort I will not dwell.
The red-haired detective who had masqueraded as Gogol rose to his feet without a word, and walked out of the room with an air of perfect nonchalance.
Yet the astonished Syme was able to realise that this ease was suddenly assumed; for there was a slight stumble outside the door, which showed that the departing detective had not minded the step.
The Secretary turned to him with working eyebrows.
Breakfast here next Sunday.
But the late loud scenes had whipped up the almost naked nerves of the Secretary.
He was one of those men who are conscientious even in crime.
Of course, I fully appreciate your forethought when in the actual presence of a traitor --
The Secretary reared back in a kind of equine anger.
Why, you dancing donkey," he roared, rising, " you didn't want to be overheard by a spy, didn't you?
How do you know you aren't overheard now?
And with these words he shouldered his way out of the room, shaking with incomprehensible scorn.
Four of the men left behind gaped after him without any apparent glimmering of his meaning.
Syme alone had even a glimmering, and such as it was it froze him to the bone.
If the last words of the President meant anything, they meant that he had not after all passed unsuspected.
They meant that while Sunday could not denounce him like Gogol, he still could not trust him like the others.
The other four got to their feet grumbling more or less, and betook themselves elsewhere to find lunch, for it was already well past midday.
The Professor went last, very slowly and painfully.
Syme sat long after the rest had gone, revolving his strange position.
He had escaped a thunderbolt, but he was still under a cloud.
At last he rose and made his way out of the hotel into Leicester Square.
The bright, cold day had grown increasingly colder, and when he came out into the street he was surprised by a few flakes of snow.
While he still carried the sword-stick and the rest of Gregory's portable luggage, he had thrown the cloak down and left it somewhere, perhaps on the steam-tug, perhaps on the balcony.
Hoping, therefore, that the snow-shower might be slight, he stepped back out of the street for a moment and stood up under the doorway of a small and greasy hair-dresser's shop, the front window of which was empty, except for a sickly wax lady in evening dress.
Snow, however, began to thicken and fall fast; and Syme, having found one glance at the wax lady quite sufficient to depress his spirits, stared out instead into the white and empty street.
He was considerably astonished to see, standing quite still outside the shop and staring into the window, a man.
His top hat was loaded with snow like the hat of Father Christmas, the white drift was rising round his boots and ankles; but it seemed as if nothing could tear him away from the contemplation of the colourless wax doll in dirty evening dress.
That any human being should stand in such weather looking into such a shop was a matter of sufficient wonder to Syme; but his idle wonder turned suddenly into a personal shock; for he realised that the man standing there was the paralytic old Professor de Worms.
It scarcely seemed the place for a person of his years and infirmities.
Syme was ready to believe anything about the perversions of this dehumanized brotherhood; but even he could not believe that the Professor had fallen in love with that particular wax lady.
He could only suppose that the man's malady (whatever it was) involved some momentary fits of rigidity or trance.
He was not inclined, however, to feel in this case any very compassionate concern.
On the contrary, he rather congratulated himself that the Professor's stroke and his elaborate and limping walk would make it easy to escape from him and leave him miles behind.
For Syme thirsted first and last to get clear of the whole poisonous atmosphere, if only for an hour.
Then he could collect his thoughts, formulate his policy, and decide finally whether he should or should not keep faith with Gregory.
He strolled away through the dancing snow, turned up two or three streets, down through two or three others, and entered a small Soho restaurant for lunch.
He partook reflectively of four small and quaint courses, drank half a bottle of red wine, and ended up over black coffee and a black cigar, still thinking.
He had taken his seat in the upper room of the restaurant, which was full of the chink of knives and the chatter of foreigners.
He remembered that in old days he had imagined that all these harmless and kindly aliens were anarchists.
He shuddered, remembering the real thing.
But even the shudder had the delightful shame of escape.
The wine, the common food, the familiar place, the faces of natural and talkative men, made him almost feel as if the Council of the Seven Days had been a bad dream; and although he knew it was nevertheless an objective reality, it was at least a distant one.
Tall houses and populous streets lay between him and his last sight of the shameful seven; he was free in free London, and drinking wine among the free.
With a somewhat easier action, he took his hat and stick and strolled down the stair into the shop below.
When he entered that lower room he stood stricken and rooted to the spot.
At a small table, close up to the blank window and the white street of snow, sat the old anarchist Professor over a glass of milk, with his lifted livid face and pendent eyelids.
For an instant Syme stood as rigid as the stick he leant upon.
Then with a gesture as of blind hurry, he brushed past the Professor, dashing open the door and slamming it behind him, and stood outside in the snow.
he asked himself, biting his yellow moustache.
One comfort is, with a little brisk walking I can put a man like that as far away as Timbuctoo.
Was he really following me?
Surely Sunday would not be such a fool as to send a lame man?
He set off at a smart pace, twisting and whirling his stick, in the direction of Covent Garden.
As he crossed the great market the snow increased, growing blinding and bewildering as the afternoon began to darken.
The snow-flakes tormented him like a swarm of silver bees.
Getting into his eyes and beard, they added their unremitting futility to his already irritated nerves; and by the time that he had come at a swinging pace to the beginning of Fleet Street, he lost patience, and finding a Sunday teashop, turned into it to take shelter.
He ordered another cup of black coffee as an excuse.
Scarcely had he done so, when Professor de Worms hobbled heavily into the shop, sat down with difficulty and ordered a glass of milk.
Syme's walking-stick had fallen from his hand with a great clang, which confessed the concealed steel.
But the Professor did not look round.
Syme, who was commonly a cool character, was literally gaping as a rustic gapes at a conjuring trick.
He had seen no cab following; he had heard no wheels outside the shop; to all mortal appearances the man had come on foot.
But the old man could only walk like a snail, and Syme had walked like the wind.
He started up and snatched his stick, half crazy with the contradiction in mere arithmetic, and swung out of the swinging doors, leaving his coffee untasted.
An omnibus going to the Bank went rattling by with an unusual rapidity.
He had a violent run of a hundred yards to reach it; but he managed to spring, swaying upon the splash-board and, pausing for an instant to pant, he climbed on to the top.
When he had been seated for about half a minute, he heard behind him a sort of heavy and asthmatic breathing.
Turning sharply, he saw rising gradually higher and higher up the omnibus steps a top hat soiled and dripping with snow, and under the shadow of its brim the short-sighted face and shaky shoulders of Professor de Worms.
He let himself into a seat with characteristic care, and wrapped himself up to the chin in the mackintosh rug.
Every movement of the old man's tottering figure and vague hands, every uncertain gesture and panic-stricken pause, seemed to put it beyond question that he was helpless, that he was in the last imbecility of the body.
He moved by inches, he let himself down with little gasps of caution.
And yet, unless the philosophical entities called time and space have no vestige even of a practical existence, it appeared quite unquestionable that he had run after the omnibus.
Syme sprang erect upon the rocking car, and after staring wildly at the wintry sky, that grew gloomier every moment, he ran down the steps.
He had repressed an elemental impulse to leap over the side.
Too bewildered to look back or to reason, he rushed into one of the little courts at the side of Fleet Street as a rabbit rushes into a hole.
He had a vague idea, if this incomprehensible old Jack-in-the-box was really pursuing him, that in that labyrinth of little streets he could soon throw him off the scent.
He dived in and out of those crooked lanes, which were more like cracks than thoroughfares; and by the time that he had completed about twenty alternate angles and described an unthinkable polygon, he paused to listen for any sound of pursuit.
There was none; there could not in any case have been much, for the little streets were thick with the soundless snow.
Somewhere behind Red Lion Court, however, he noticed a place where some energetic citizen had cleared away the snow for a space of about twenty yards, leaving the wet, glistening cobble-stones.
He thought little of this as he passed it, only plunging into yet another arm of the maze.
But when a few hundred yards farther on he stood still again to listen, his heart stood still also, for he heard from that space of rugged stones the clinking crutch and labouring feet of the infernal cripple.
The sky above was loaded with the clouds of snow, leaving London in a darkness and oppression premature for that hour of the evening.
On each side of Syme the walls of the alley were blind and featureless; there was no little window or any kind of eve.
He felt a new impulse to break out of this hive of houses, and to get once more into the open and lamp-lit street.
Yet he rambled and dodged for a long time before he struck the main thoroughfare.
When he did so, he struck it much farther up than he had fancied.
He came out into what seemed the vast and void of Ludgate Circus, and saw St. Paul's Cathedral sitting in the sky.
At first he was startled to find these great roads so empty, as if a pestilence had swept through the city.
Then he told himself that some degree of emptiness was natural; first because the snow-storm was even dangerously deep, and secondly because it was Sunday.
And at the very word Sunday he bit his lip; the word was henceforth for hire like some indecent pun.
Under the white fog of snow high up in the heaven the whole atmosphere of the city was turned to a very queer kind of green twilight, as of men under the sea.
The sealed and sullen sunset behind the dark dome of St. Paul's had in it smoky and sinister colours-colours of sickly green, dead red or decaying bronze, that were just bright enough to emphasise the solid whiteness of the snow.
But right up against these dreary colours rose the black bulk of the cathedral; and upon the top of the cathedral was a random splash and great stain of snow, still clinging as to an Alpine peak.
It had fallen accidentally, but just so fallen as to half drape the dome from its very topmost point, and to pick out in perfect silver the great orb and the cross.
When Syme saw it he suddenly straightened himself, and made with his sword-stick an involuntary salute.
He knew that that evil figure, his shadow, was creeping quickly or slowly behind him, and he did not care.
It seemed a symbol of human faith and valour that while the skies were darkening that high place of the earth was bright.
The devils might have captured heaven, but they had not yet captured the cross.
He had a new impulse to tear out the secret of this dancing, jumping and pursuing paralytic; and at the entrance of the court as it opened upon the Circus he turned, stick in hand, to face his pursuer.
Professor de Worms came slowly round the corner of the irregular alley behind him, his unnatural form outlined against a lonely gas-lamp, irresistibly recalling that very imaginative figure in the nursery rhymes, " the crooked man who went a crooked mile.
He really looked as if he had been twisted out of shape by the tortuous streets he had been threading.
He came nearer and nearer, the lamplight shining on his lifted spectacles, his lifted, patient face.
Syme waited for him as St. George waited for the dragon, as a man waits for a final explanation or for death.
And the old Professor came right up to him and passed him like a total stranger, without even a blink of his mournful eyelids.
There was something in this silent and unexpected innocence that left Syme in a final fury.
The man's colourless face and manner seemed to assert that the whole following had been an accident.
Syme was galvanised with an energy that was something between bitterness and a burst of boyish derision.
He made a wild gesture as if to knock the old man's hat off, called out something like " Catch me if you can," and went racing away across the white, open Circus.
Concealment was impossible now; and looking back over his shoulder, he could see the black figure of the old gentleman coming after him with long, swinging strides like a man winning a mile race.
But the head upon that bounding body was still pale, grave and professional, like the head of a lecturer upon the body of a harlequin.
This outrageous chase sped across Ludgate Circus, up Ludgate Hill, round St. Paul's Cathedral, along Cheapside, Syme remembering all the nightmares he had ever known.
Then Syme broke away towards the river, and ended almost down by the docks.
He saw the yellow panes of a low, lighted public-house, flung himself into it and ordered beer.
It was a foul tavern, sprinkled with foreign sailors, a place where opium might be smoked or knives drawn.
A moment later Professor de Worms entered the place, sat down carefully, and asked for a glass of milk.
WHEN Gabriel Syme found himself finally established in a chair, and opposite to him, fixed and final also, the lifted eyebrows and leaden eyelids of the Professor, his fears fully returned.
This incomprehensible man from the fierce council, after all, had certainly pursued him.
If the man had one character as a paralytic and another character as a pursuer, the antithesis might make him more interesting, but scarcely more soothing.
It would be a very small comfort that he could not find the Professor out, if by some serious accident the Professor should find him out.
He emptied a whole pewter pot of ale before the professor had touched his milk.
One possibility, however, kept him hopeful and yet helpless.
It was just possible that this escapade signified something other than even a slight suspicion of him.
Perhaps it was some regular form or sign.
Perhaps the foolish scamper was some sort of friendly signal that he ought to have understood.
Perhaps the new Thursday was always chased along Cheapside, as the new Lord Mayor is always escorted along it.
He was just selecting a tentative inquiry, when the old Professor opposite suddenly and simply cut him short.
Before Syme could ask the first diplomatic question, the old anarchist had asked suddenly, without any sort of preparation --
Whatever else Syme had expected, he had never expected anything so brutal and actual as this.
Even his great presence of mind could only manage a reply with an air of rather blundering jocularity.
he said, laughing vaguely.
asked Syme, smiling wildly.
Have my boots got that watchful look?
Why must I be a policeman?
Do, do let me be a postman.
The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a feverish irony.
Perhaps policeman is a relative term.
In an evolutionary sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade.
The monkey is only the policeman that may be.
Perhaps a maiden lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been.
I don't mind being the policeman that might have been.
I don't mind being anything in German thought.
said the old man, ignoring all Syme's improvised and desperate raillery.
Syme's heart turned to stone, but his face never changed.
The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it.
he shrieked in a high, crazy voice.
answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman's drop.
If you swear falsely, will you be damned?
Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral?
Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave?
Will there really be no mistake?
You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter!
Above all, you are not in any sense a detective?
You are not in the British police?
He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear.
Professor de Worms fell back in his chair with a curious air of kindly collapse.
Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash.
and beaming through his spectacles.
I am in the British police force; but as you tell me you are not in the British police force, I can only say that I met you in a dynamiters'club.
I suppose I ought to arrest you.
And with these words he laid on the table before Syme an exact facsimile of the blue card which Syme had in his own waistcoat pocket, the symbol of his power from the police.
Syme had for a flash the sensation that the cosmos had turned exactly upside down, that all trees were growing downwards and that all stars were under his feet.
Then came slowly the opposite conviction.
For the last twenty-four hours the cosmos had really been upside down, but now the capsized universe had come right side up again.
This devil from whom he had been fleeing all day was only an elder brother of his own house, who on the other side of the table lay back and laughed at him.
He did not for the moment ask any questions of detail; he only knew the happy and silly fact that this shadow, which had pursued him with an intolerable oppression of peril, was only the shadow of a friend trying to catch him up.
He knew simultaneously that he was a fool and a free man.
For with any recovery from morbidity there must go a certain healthy humiliation.
There comes a certain point in such conditions when only three things are possible: first a perpetuation of Satanic pride, secondly tears, and third laughter.
Syme's egotism held hard to the first course for a few seconds, and then suddenly adopted the third.
Taking his own blue police ticket from his own waist coat pocket, he tossed it on to the table; then he flung his head back until his spike of yellow beard almost pointed at the ceiling, and shouted with a barbaric laughter.
Even in that close den, perpetually filled with the din of knives, plates, cans, clamorous voices, sudden struggles and stampedes, there was something Homeric in Syme's mirth which made many half-drunken men look round.
asked one wondering labourer from the docks.
said the other, in tones of withering and unfathomable contempt, " my milk!
Do you think I'd look at the beastly stuff when I'm out of sight of the bloody anarchists?
We're all Christians in this room, though perhaps," he added, glancing around at the reeling crowd, " not strict ones.
yes, I'll finish it right enough!
and he knocked the tumbler off the table, making a crash of glass and a splash of silver fluid.
Syme was staring at him with a happy curiosity.
As to whether I'm an old man, that's not for me to say.
I was thirty-eight last birthday.
Syme's laughter at all this had about it a wild weakness of relief.
He laughed at the idea of the paralytic Professor being really a young actor dressed up as if for the foot-lights.
But he felt that he would have laughed as loudly if a pepperpot had fallen over.
The false Professor drank and wiped his false beard.
No, I didn't know it," answered Syme in some surprise.
Syme struck the table with an exclamation.
If we had only known that we were three!
The face of Professor de Worms darkened, and he did not look up.
asked Syme, jeering rather boisterously.
And the mere name struck Syme cold and serious; his laughter had died in his heart before it could die on his lips.
They were both silent for a measure of moments, and then Syme's speech came with a rush, like the sudden foaming of champagne.
Are you afraid of this man?
The Professor lifted his heavy lids, and gazed at Syme with large, wide-open, blue eyes of an almost ethereal honesty.
Syme was dumb for an instant.
Then he rose to his feet erect, like an insulted man, and thrust the chair away from him.
Therefore I swear by God that I will seek out this man whom I fear until I find him, and strike him on the mouth.
If heaven were his throne and the earth his footstool, I swear that I would pull him down.
asked the staring Professor.
De Worms blinked at him with a sort of blind wonder.
He made an effort to speak, but Syme went on in a low voice, but with an undercurrent of inhuman exaltation --
Who would debase himself to be merely brave, like any common prizefighter?
Who would stoop to be fearless-like a tree?
Fight the thing that you fear.
You remember the old tale of the English clergyman who gave the last rites to the brigand of Sicily, and how on his death-bed the great robber said,'I can give you no money, but I can give you advice for a lifetime: your thumb on the blade, and strike upwards.'
So I say to you, strike upwards, if you strike at the stars.
The other looked at the ceiling, one of the tricks of his pose.
The decision of his gesture drew the Professor vaguely to his feet.
The Marquis is by this time probably crossing the Channel.
But where he will go and what he will do it is doubtful whether even the President knows; certainly we don't know.
The only man who does know is Dr. Bull.
asked Syme with eager eyes.
Syme stood looking at him with a sort of rigid excitement.
As to that I will say only one word, and that shall be entirely in the manner of your own philosophical rhetoric.
You think that it is possible to pull down the President.
I know that it is impossible, and I am going to try it," and opening the tavern door, which let in a blast of bitter air, they went out together into the dark streets by the docks.
Most of the snow was melted or trampled to mud, but here and there a clot of it still showed grey rather than white in the gloom.
The small streets were sloppy and full of pools, which reflected the flaming lamps irregularly, and by accident, like fragments of some other and fallen world.
Syme felt almost dazed as he stepped through this growing confusion of lights and shadows; but his companion walked on with a certain briskness, towards where, at the end of the street, an inch or two of the lamplit river looked like a bar of flame.
He is hygienic, and retires early.
Turning the corner as he spoke, and facing the dim river, flecked with flame, he pointed with his stick to the other bank.
On the Surrey side at this point there ran out into the Thames, seeming almost to overhang it, a bulk and cluster of those tall tenements, dotted with lighted windows, and rising like factory chimneys to an almost insane height.
Their special poise and position made one block of buildings especially look like a Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes.
Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream.
Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret abruptly went out, as if this black Argus had winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes.
Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot.
Come along and get some dinner.
We must call on him tomorrow morning.
Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road.
The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt twilight and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road.
In that place they dined and slept, both very thoroughly.
The beans and bacon, which these unaccountable people cooked well, the astonishing emergence of Burgundy from their cellars, crowned Syme's sense of a new comradeship and comfort.
Through all this ordeal his root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally.
It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two.
But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one.
That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy.
Syme was able to pour out for the first time the whole of his outrageous tale, from the time when Gregory had taken him to the little tavern by the river.
He did it idly and amply, in a luxuriant monologue, as a man speaks with very old friends.
On his side, also, the man who had impersonated Professor de Worms was not less communicative.
His own story was almost as silly as Syme's.
Even at the start I thought he was a bit too hairy.
He made up as the abstract or platonic ideal of an anarchist.
But, indeed, to say that I am a portrait painter is an inadequate expression.
When I was on the stage I mixed with all sorts of Bohemian and blackguard company.
Sometimes I touched the edge of the turf, sometimes the riff-raff of the arts, and occasionally the political refugee.
In some den of exiled dreamers I was introduced to the great German Nihilist philosopher, Professor de Worms.
I did not gather much about him beyond his appearance, which was very disgusting, and which I studied carefully.
I understood that he had proved that the destructive principle in the universe was God; hence he insisted on the need for a furious and incessant energy, rending all things in pieces.
Energy, he said, was the All.
He was lame, shortsighted, and partially paralytic.
When I met him I was in a frivolous mood, and I disliked him so much that I resolved to imitate him.
If I had been a draughtsman I would have drawn a caricature.
I was only an actor, I could only act a caricature.
I made myself up into what was meant for a wild exaggeration of the old Professor's dirty old self.
When I went into the room full of his supporters I expected to be received with a roar of laughter, or (if they were too far gone) with a roar of indignation at the insult.
I cannot describe the surprise I felt when my entrance was received with a respectful silence, followed (when I had first opened my lips) with a murmur of admiration.
The curse of the perfect artist had fallen upon me.
I had been too subtle, I had been too true.
They thought I really was the great Nihilist Professor.
I was a healthy-minded young man at the time, and I confess that it was a blow.
Before I could fully recover, however, two or three of these admirers ran up to me radiating indignation, and told me that a public insult had been put upon me in the next room.
It seemed that an impertinent fellow had dressed himself up as a preposterous parody of myself.
I had drunk more champagne than was good for me, and in a flash of folly I decided to see the situation through.
Consequently it was to meet the glare of the company and my own lifted eyebrows and freezing eyes that the real Professor came into the room.
The pessimists all round me looked anxiously from one Professor to the other Professor to see which was really the more feeble.
An old man in poor health, like my rival, could not be expected to be so impressively feeble as a young actor in the prime of life.
You see, he really had paralysis, and working within this definite limitation, he couldn't be so jolly paralytic as I was.
Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually.
I countered that by a very simple dodge.
Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself.
I replied quite scornfully,'You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.'
It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe.
But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit.
Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne?
I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty.
But I laughed heartily, answered,'Like the Pantheist's boots,' at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory.
The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose.
He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor.
His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining.
To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman.
I struck a sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent,'Yes, I am wanted-by the oppressed of the world.
You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.'
The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand,'No, sir,' he said civilly,'at least, not exactly, sir.
I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.'
This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed.
I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety.
He offered me a good salary and this little blue card.
Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because --
Syme laid down his knife and fork.
Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass.
Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can't leave off.
So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead-just as if it were my forehead.
I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way.
The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different.
You should hear me say,'Buck up, old cock!'
It would bring tears to your eyes.
The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.
Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head.
There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands.
Then he said in a low voice --
Then, as the other did not speak, he added --
After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands --
You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower.
We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man.
I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles.
He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary.
But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait.
But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease.
Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality.
He bounces like an india-rubber ball.
Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?)
when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr.
Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see.
I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers-like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table --" B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require.
Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme.
He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee.
But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.
My favourite word is'coeval '.
Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer '
What the deuce else can you do?
I wish this language of yours had a wider scope.
I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes?
That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed --
Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code.
He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed.
Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up.
It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger.
He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold.
Did it take you long to make it up?
The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question.
I'm considered good at these things, and it was a good hour's grind.
Did you learn it all on the spot?
The Professor was silent; his eyes were wide open, and he wore a fixed but very small smile.
The Professor did not move.
called out Syme, in a sudden anger that had something like fear underneath.
Whether or no the Professor could answer, he did not.
Syme stood staring back at the stiff face like parchment and the blank, blue eyes.
His first thought was that the Professor had gone mad, but his second thought was more frightful.
After all, what did he know about this queer creature whom he had heedlessly accepted as a friend?
What did he know, except that the man had been at the anarchist breakfast and had told him a ridiculous tale?
How improbable it was that there should be another friend there beside Gogol!
Was this man's silence a sensational way of declaring war?
Was this adamantine stare after all only the awful sneer of some threefold traitor, who had turned for the last time?
He stood and strained his ears in this heartless silence.
He almost fancied he could hear dynamiters come to capture him shifting softly in the corridor outside.
Then his eye strayed downwards, and he burst out laughing.
Though the Professor himself stood there as voiceless as a statue, his five dumb fingers were dancing alive upon the dead table.
Syme watched the twinkling movements of the talking hand, and read clearly the message --
He rapped out the answer with the impatience of relief --
Let's get out to breakfast.
They took their hats and sticks in silence; but as Syme took his sword-stick, he held it hard.
They paused for a few minutes only to stuff down coffee and coarse thick sandwiches at a coffee stall, and then made their way across the river, which under the grey and growing light looked as desolate as Acheron.
They reached the bottom of the huge block of buildings which they had seen from across the river, and began in silence to mount the naked and numberless stone steps, only pausing now and then to make short remarks on the rail of the banisters.
At about every other flight they passed a window; each window showed them a pale and tragic dawn lifting itself laboriously over London.
From each the innumerable roofs of slate looked like the leaden surges of a grey, troubled sea after rain.
Syme was increasingly conscious that his new adventure had somehow a quality of cold sanity worse than the wild adventures of the past.
Last night, for instance, the tall tenements had seemed to him like a tower in a dream.
As he now went up the weary and perpetual steps, he was daunted and bewildered by their almost infinite series.
But it was not the hot horror of a dream or of anything that might be exaggeration or delusion.
Their infinity was more like the empty infinity of arithmetic, something unthinkable, yet necessary to thought.
Or it was like the stunning statements of astronomy about the distance of the fixed stars.
He was ascending the house of reason, a thing more hideous than unreason itself.
By the time they reached Dr. Bull's landing, a last window showed them a harsh, white dawn edged with banks of a kind of coarse red, more like red clay than red cloud.
And when they entered Dr. Bull's bare garret it was full of light.
Syme had been haunted by a half historic memory in connection with these empty rooms and that austere daybreak.
The moment he saw the garret and Dr. Bull sitting writing at a table, he remembered what the memory was-the French Revolution.
There should have been the black outline of a guillotine against that heavy red and white of the morning.
Dr. Bull was in his white shirt and black breeches only; his cropped, dark head might well have just come out of its wig; he might have been Marat or a more slipshod Robespierre.
Yet when he was seen properly, the French fancy fell away.
The Jacobins were idealists; there was about this man a murderous materialism.
His Dosition gave him a somewhat new appearance.
The strong, white light of morning coming from one side creating sharp shadows, made him seem both more pale and more angular than he had looked at the breakfast on the balcony.
Thus the two black glasses that encased his eyes might really have been black cavities in his skull, making him look like a death's-head.
And, indeed, if ever Death himself sat writing at a wooden table, it might have been he.
He looked up and smiled brightly enough as the men came in, and rose with the resilient rapidity of which the Professor had spoken.
He set chairs for both of them, and going to a peg behind the door, proceeded to put on a coat and waistcoat of rough, dark tweed; he buttoned it up neatly, and came back to sit down at his table.
The quiet good humour of his manner left his two opponents helpless.
It was with some momentary difficulty that the Professor broke silence and began, " I'm sorry to disturb you so early, comrade," said he, with a careful resumption of the slow de Worms manner.
Then he added with infinite slowness, " We have information which renders intolerable anything in the nature of a moment's delay.
Dr. Bull smiled again, but continued to gaze on them without speaking.
The Professor resumed, a pause before each weary word --
Comrade Syme and I have had an experience which it would take more time to recount than we can afford, if we are to act on it.
I will, however, relate the occurrence in detail, even at the risk of losing time, if you really feel that it is essential to the understanding of the problem we have to discuss.
He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand.
But the little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue was uphill work.
Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair.
The Doctor's smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before.
About the Professor's makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog.
Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood.
But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word.
The whole had a sense of unbearable reality.
Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel.
But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence.
His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table.
He read the message, " You must go on.
This devil has sucked me dry!
Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.
Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy.
Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France.
So unless you or I can get on his track --
The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable.
The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm.
It seems to me unquestionably urgent that --
All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile.
The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table.
His message to his ally ran, " I have an intuition.
The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, " Then sit on it.
Syme telegraphed, " It is quite extraordinary.
The other answered, " Extraordinary rot!
Syme said, " I am a poet.
The other retorted, " You are a dead man.
Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly.
As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty.
Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, " You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is.
It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring.
He then studied the answer on his friend's fingers.
The answer was, " Go to hell!
The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor.
His companion disdained to reply.
The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act.
He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected --
The Doctor's sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark glasses his eyes darted towards Syme.
Would you be so kind as to take off your spectacles?
The Professor swung round on his seat, and stared at Syme with a sort of frozen fury of astonishment.
Syme, like a man who has thrown his life and fortune on the table, leaned forward with a fiery face.
For a few seconds there was a silence in which one could hear a pin drop, split once by the single hoot of a distant steamer on the Thames.
Then Dr. Bull rose slowly, still smiling, and took off his spectacles.
Syme sprang to his feet, stepping backwards a little, like a chemical lecturer from a successful explosion.
His eyes were like stars, and for an instant he could only point without speaking.
The Professor had also started to his feet, forgetful of his supposed paralysis.
He leant on the back of the chair and stared doubtfully at Dr. Bull, as if the Doctor had been turned into a toad before his eyes.
And indeed it was almost as great a transformation scene.
The two detectives saw sitting in the chair before them a very boyish-looking young man, with very frank and happy hazel eyes, an open expression, cockney clothes like those of a city clerk, and an unquestionable breath about him of being very good and rather commonplace.
The smile was still there, but it might have been the first smile of a baby.
It was the spectacles that did it!
It was all the spectacles.
Given those beastly black eyes, and all the rest of him his health and his jolly looks, made him a live devil among dead ones.
roared Syme, beside himself.
Look at his face, look at his collar, look at his blessed boots!
You don't suppose, do you, that that thing's an anarchist?
cried the other in an apprehensive agony.
Dr. Bull, I am a police officer.
There's my card," and he flung down the blue card upon the table.
The Professor still feared that all was lost; but he was loyal.
He pulled out his own official card and put it beside his friend's.
Then the third man burst out laughing, and for the first time that morning they heard his voice.
Yes, I'm in the force right enough," and he flicked a blue card towards them lightly as a matter of form.
Clapping a brisk bowler on his head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him.
Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang.
The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below.
We were four against One.
The others went down the stairs in silence.
I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent.
I hope you won't despise me for having been in a blue funk.
But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles.
The young man laughed delightedly.
I haven't got the brains.
You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business.
But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter.
They said my very walk was respectable, and that seen from behind I looked like the British Constitution.
They said I looked too healthy and too optimistic, and too reliable and benevolent; they called me all sorts of names at Scotland Yard.
They said that if I had been a criminal, I might have made my fortune by looking so like an honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal.
But as last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders.
And there the others all talked hopelessly.
One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark.
Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.'
And so it was, by George!
When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil.
As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn't the really miraculous part of it.
There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it.
Syme's eyes suddenly flashed on him.
There, you would never have guessed that.
Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind.
At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover.
Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process.
They were already on the Calais boat before conversation flowed freely.
You see, I had to send that beast, the Marquis, over with his bomb, because the President had his eye on me, though God knows how.
I'll tell you the story some day.
It was perfectly choking.
Whenever I tried to slip out of it I saw the President somewhere, smiling out of the bow-window of a club, or taking off his hat to me from the top of an omnibus.
I tell you, you can say what you like, that fellow sold himself to the devil; he can be in six places at once.
Shall we be in time to catch him?
He'll still be at Calais when we arrive.
At this question the countenance of Dr. Bull fell for the first time.
He reflected a little, and then said --
I promised a poor fellow, who was a real modern pessimist, on my word of honour not to tell the police.
I'm no hand at casuistry, but I can't break my word to a modern pessimist.
It's like breaking one's word to a child.
You see, when I was an actor I was a sort of all-round beast.
Perjury or treason is the only crime I haven't committed.
If I did that I shouldn't know the difference between right and wrong.
I gave my promise to the Secretary-you know him, man who smiles upside down.
My friends, that man is the most utterly unhappy man that was ever human.
It may be his digestion, or his conscience, or his nerves, or his philosophy of the universe, but he's damned, he's in hell!
Well, I can't turn on a man like that, and hunt him down.
It's like whipping a leper.
I may be mad, but that's how I feel; and there's jolly well the end of it.
Dr. Bull smiled a little, and strolled across the deck to look at the sunlit sea.
Then he strolled back again, kicking his heels carelessly, and a companionable silence fell between the three men.
Gogol has gone, God knows where; perhaps the President has smashed him like a fly.
On the Council we are three men against three, like the Romans who held the bridge.
But we are worse off than that, first because they can appeal to their organization and we cannot appeal to ours, and second because --
Syme nodded and was silent for a second or two, then he said --
We must do something to keep the Marquis in Calais till tomorrow midday.
I have turned over twenty schemes in my head.
We cannot denounce him as a dynamiter; that is agreed.
We cannot get him detained on some trivial charge, for we should have to appear; he knows us, and he would smell a rat.
We cannot pretend to keep him on anarchist business; he might swallow much in that way, but not the notion of stopping in Calais while the Czar went safely through Paris.
We might try to kidnap him, and lock him up ourselves; but he is a well-known man here.
He has a whole bodyguard of friends; he is very strong and brave, and the event is doubtful.
The only thing I can see to do is actually to take advantage of the very things that are in the Marquis's favour.
I am going to profit by the fact that he is a highly respected nobleman.
I am going to profit by the fact that he has many friends and moves in the best society.
Since 1350 the tree is quite clear.
The Professor seized Syme roughly by the waistcoat.
The Marquis cannot deny that he is a gentleman.
He cannot deny that I am a gentleman.
And in order to put the matter of my social position quite beyond a doubt, I propose at the earliest opportunity to knock his hat off.
But here we are in the harbour.
They went on shore under the strong sun in a sort of daze.
Syme, who had now taken the lead as Bull had taken it in London, led them along a kind of marine parade until he came to some cafes, embowered in a bulk of greenery and overlooking the sea.
As he went before them his step was slightly swaggering, and he swung his stick like a sword.
He was making apparently for the extreme end of the line of cafes, but he stopped abruptly.
SYME sat down at a cafe table with his companions, his blue eyes sparkling like the bright sea below, and ordered a bottle of Saumur with a pleased impatience.
He was for some reason in a condition of curious hilarity.
His spirits were already unnaturally high; they rose as the Saumur sank, and in half an hour his talk was a torrent of nonsense.
He professed to be making out a plan of the conversation which was going to ensue between himself and the deadly Marquis.
He jotted it down wildly with a pencil.
It was arranged like a printed catechism, with questions and answers, and was delivered with an extraordinary rapidity of utterance.
Before taking off his hat, I shall take off my own.
I shall say,'The Marquis de Saint Eustache, I believe.'
He will say,'The celebrated Mr. Syme, I presume.'
He will say in the most exquisite French,'How are you?'
I shall reply in the most exquisite Cockney,'Oh, just the Syme --'
What are you really going to do?
It has only forty-three questions and answers, and some of the Marquis's answers are wonderfully witty.
I like to be just to my enemy.
asked Dr. Bull in exasperation.
In that case, I understand, your own epigrams may appear somewhat more forced.
Syme struck the table with a radiant face.
Sir, you have an intellect beyond the common.
And since the course of a dialogue cannot be predicted by one of its parties alone (as you have pointed out with such recondite acumen), the only thing to be done, I suppose, is for the one party, as far as possible, to do all the dialogue by himself.
And so I will, by George!
And he stood up suddenly, his yellow hair blowing in the slight sea breeze.
A band was playing in a cafe chantant hidden somewhere among the trees, and a woman had just stopped singing.
On Syme's heated head the bray of the brass band seemed like the jar and jingle of that barrel-organ in Leicester Square, to the tune of which he had once stood up to die.
He looked across to the little table where the Marquis sat.
The man had two companions now, solemn Frenchmen in frock-coats and silk hats, one of them with the red rosette of the Legion of Honour, evidently people of a solid social position.
Besides these black, cylindrical costumes, the Marquis, in his loose straw hat and light spring clothes, looked Bohemian and even barbaric; but he looked the Marquis.
Indeed, one might say that he looked the king, with his animal elegance, his scornful eyes, and his proud head lifted against the purple sea.
But he was no Christian king, at any rate; he was, rather, some swarthy despot, half Greek, half Asiatic, who in the days when slavery seemed natural looked down on the Mediterranean, on his galley and his groaning slaves.
Just so, Syme thought, would the brown-gold face of such a tyrant have shown against the dark green olives and the burning blue.
asked the Professor peevishly, seeing that Syme still stood up without moving.
Syme drained his last glass of sparkling wine.
That meeting displeases me.
I am going to pull that meeting's great ugly, mahogany-coloured nose.
He stepped across swiftly, if not quite steadily.
The Marquis, seeing him, arched his black Assyrian eyebrows in surprise, but smiled politely.
He leant over to do so, but the Marquis started backwards, upsetting his chair, and the two men in top hats held Syme back by the shoulders.
said Syme, with gestures of explanation.
cried the gentleman with the red rosette, " when?
exclaimed the gentleman incredulously.
said the second gentleman with some legitimate wonder.
I only said that I liked Wagner played well.
It was a painful subject.
We are always being insulted about it.
said the second gentleman.
said Syme, facing round and looking at him, " what a clever chap you are!
The Marquis started up with eyes flaming like a tiger's.
there was never a man who had to seek long.
These gentlemen will perhaps act for me.
There are still four hours of daylight.
Let us fight this evening.
Syme bowed with a quite beautiful graciousness.
Permit me to consult for a moment with the gentlemen in whose hands I shall place myself.
In three long strides he rejoined his companions, and they, who had seen his champagne-inspired attack and listened to his idiotic explanations, were quite startled at the look of him.
For now that he came back to them he was quite sober, a little pale, and he spoke in a low voice of passionate practicality.
But look here, and listen carefully.
There is no time for talk.
You are my seconds, and everything must come from you.
Now you must insist, and insist absolutely, on the duel coming off after seven tomorrow, so as to give me the chance of preventing him from catching the 7. 45 for Paris.
If he misses that he misses his crime.
He can't refuse to meet you on such a small point of time and place.
But this is what he will do.
He will choose a field somewhere near a wayside station, where he can pick up the train.
He is a very good swordsman, and he will trust to killing me in time to catch it.
But I can fence well too, and I think I can keep him in play, at any rate, until the train is lost.
Then perhaps he may kill me to console his feelings.
Very well then, let me introduce you to some charming friends of mine," and leading them quickly across the parade, he presented them to the Marquis's seconds by two very aristocratic names of which they had not previously heard.
Syme was subject to spasms of singular common sense, not otherwise a part of his character.
They were (as he said of his impulse about the spectacles) poetic intuitions, and they sometimes rose to the exaltation of prophecy.
He had correctly calculated in this case the policy of his opponent.
When the Marquis was informed by his seconds that Syme could only fight in the morning, he must fully have realised that an obstacle had suddenly arisen between him and his bomb-throwing business in the capital.
Naturally he could not explain this objection to his friends, so he chose the course which Syme had predicted.
He induced his seconds to settle on a small meadow not far from the railway, and he trusted to the fatality of the first engagement.
When he came down very coolly to the field of honour, no one could have guessed that he had any anxiety about a journey; his hands were in his pockets, his straw hat on the back of his head, his handsome face brazen in the sun.
But it might have struck a stranger as odd that there appeared in his train, not only his seconds carrying the sword-case, but two of his servants carrying a portmanteau and a luncheon basket.
Early as was the hour, the sun soaked everything in warmth, and Syme was vaguely surprised to see so many spring flowers burning gold and silver in the tall grass in which the whole company stood almost knee-deep.
With the exception of the Marquis, all the men were in sombre and solemn morning-dress, with hats like black chimney-pots; the little Doctor especially, with the addition of his black spectacles, looked like an undertaker in a farce.
Syme could not help feeling a comic contrast between this funereal church parade of apparel and the rich and glistening meadow, growing wild flowers everywhere.
But, indeed, this comic contrast between the yellow blossoms and the black hats was but a symbol of the tragic contrast between the yellow blossoms and the black business.
On his right was a little wood; far away to his left lay the long curve of the railway line, which he was, so to speak, guarding from the Marquis, whose goal and escape it was.
In front of him, behind the black group of his opponents, he could see, like a tinted cloud, a small almond bush in flower against the faint line of the sea.
The member of the Legion of Honour, whose name it seemed was Colonel Ducroix, approached the Professor and Dr. Bull with great politeness, and suggested that the play should terminate with the first considerable hurt.
Dr. Bull, however, having been carefully coached by Syme upon this point of policy, insisted, with great dignity and in very bad French, that it should continue until one of the combatants was disabled.
Syme had made up his mind that he could avoid disabling the Marquis and prevent the Marquis from disabling him for at least twenty minutes.
In twenty minutes the Paris train would have gone by.
broke from the Marquis behind, whose face had suddenly darkened, " let us stop talking and begin," and he slashed off the head of a tall flower with his stick.
Syme understood his rude impatience and instinctively looked over his shoulder to see whether the train was coming in sight.
But there was no smoke on the horizon.
Colonel Ducroix knelt down and unlocked the case, taking out a pair of twin swords, which took the sunlight and turned to two streaks of white fire.
He offered one to the Marquis, who snatched it without ceremony, and another to Syme, who took it, bent it, and poised it with as much delay as was consistent with dignity.
Then the Colonel took out another pair of blades, and taking one himself and giving another to Dr. Bull, proceeded to place the men.
Both combatants had thrown off their coats and waistcoats, and stood sword in hand.
The seconds stood on each side of the line of fight with drawn swords also, but still sombre in their dark frock-coats and hats.
The Colonel said quietly, " Engage!
and the two blades touched and tingled.
When the jar of the joined iron ran up Syme's arm, all the fantastic fears that have been the subject of this story fell from him like dreams from a man waking up in bed.
He remembered them clearly and in order as mere delusions of the nerves-how the fear of the Professor had been the fear of the tyrannic accidents of nightmare, and how the fear of the Doctor had been the fear of the airless vacuum of science.
The first was the old fear that any miracle might happen, the second the more hopeless modern fear that no miracle can ever happen.
But he saw that these fears were fancies, for he found himself in the presence of the great fact of the fear of death, with its coarse and pitiless common sense.
He felt like a man who had dreamed all night of falling over precipices, and had woke up on the morning when he was to be hanged.
He felt a strange and vivid value in all the earth around him, in the grass under his feet; he felt the love of life in all living things.
He could almost fancy that he heard the grass growing; he could almost fancy that even as he stood fresh flowers were springing up and breaking into blossom in the meadow-flowers blood red and burning gold and blue, fulfilling the whole pageant of the spring.
And whenever his eyes strayed for a flash from the calm, staring, hypnotic eyes of the Marquis, they saw the little tuft of almond tree against the sky-line.
He had the feeling that if by some miracle he escaped he would be ready to sit for ever before that almond tree, desiring nothing else in the world.
But while earth and sky and everything had the living beauty of a thing lost, the other half of his head was as clear as glass, and he was parrying his enemy's point with a kind of clockwork skill of which he had hardly supposed himself capable.
Once his enemy's point ran along his wrist, leaving a slight streak of blood, but it either was not noticed or was tacitly ignored.
Every now and then he riposted, and once or twice he could almost fancy that he felt his point go home, but as there was no blood on blade or shirt he supposed he was mistaken.
Then came an interruption and a change.
At the risk of losing all, the Marquis, interrupting his quiet stare, flashed one glance over his shoulder at the line of railway on his right.
Then he turned on Syme a face transfigured to that of a fiend, and began to fight as if with twenty weapons.
The attack came so fast and furious, that the one shining sword seemed a shower of shining arrows.
Syme had no chance to look at the railway; but also he had no need.
He could guess the reason of the Marquis's sudden madness of battle-the Paris train was in sight.
But the Marquis's morbid energy over-reached itself.
Twice Syme, parrying, knocked his opponent's point far out of the fighting circle; and the third time his riposte was so rapid, that there was no doubt about the hit this time.
Syme's sword actually bent under the weight of the Marquis's body, which it had pierced.
Syme was as certain that he had stuck his blade into his enemy as a gardener that he has stuck his spade into the ground.
Yet the Marquis sprang back from the stroke without a stagger, and Syme stood staring at his own sword-point like an idiot.
There was no blood on it at all.
There was an instant of rigid silence, and then Syme in his turn fell furiously on the other, filled with a flaming curiosity.
The Marquis was probably, in a general sense, a better fencer than he, as he had surmised at the beginning, but at the moment the Marquis seemed distraught and at a disadvantage.
He fought wildly and even weakly, and he constantly looked away at the railway line, almost as if he feared the train more than the pointed steel.
Syme, on the other hand, fought fiercely but still carefully, in an intellectual fury, eager to solve the riddle of his own bloodless sword.
For this purpose, he aimed less at the Marquis's body, and more at his throat and head.
A minute and a half afterwards he felt his point enter the man's neck below the jaw.
Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis's cheek.
For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors.
Surely the man had a charmed life.
But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him.
The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil-perhaps he was the Devil!
Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark.
When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees.
He thought of all the human things in his story-of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl's red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by.
Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation.
I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do-I can die," and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train.
He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise.
As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell.
His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle.
Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword.
The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man's thigh.
said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience.
asked Colonel Ducroix, staring.
The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience.
Mr. Syme," he continued, turning to his opponent, " we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose.
Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible?
But one can hardly call one's nose a weapon.
said the Marquis in exasperation.
You wanted to do it, do it!
You can have no conception of how important it is to me.
Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!
and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile.
The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill.
Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures-the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over.
Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman.
He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand.
He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene.
The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice.
Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow!
It's the kind of thing that might come in useful any day," and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage.
said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field.
I tell you the train has come into the station!
It shall go out without you.
We know well enough for what devil's work --
The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture.
He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.
The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking.
he said without taking breath.
cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily.
Did you really think I wanted to catch that train?
Twenty Paris trains might go by for me.
I didn't care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God!
Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portion of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer.
Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways.
What do you mean by saying that the train has caught you?
It may be my literary fancy, but somehow I feel that it ought to mean something.
Sunday has us now in the hollow of his hand.
repeated the Professor, as if stupefied.
said the Marquis, and tore off his scalp and half his face.
The head which emerged was the blonde, well brushed, smooth-haired head which is common in the English constabulary, but the face was terribly pale.
But if there is any doubt about my position, I have a card " and he began to pull a blue card from his pocket.
The Professor gave a tired gesture.
The little man named Bull, had, like many men who seem to be of a mere vivacious vulgarity, sudden movements of good taste.
Here he certainly saved the situation.
In the midst of this staggering transformation scene he stepped forward with all the gravity and responsibility of a second, and addressed the two seconds of the Marquis.
You have not wasted your time; you have helped to save the world.
We are not buffoons, but very desperate men at war with a vast conspiracy.
How hard they hunt us you can gather from the fact that we are driven to such disguises as those for which I apologise, and to such pranks as this one by which you suffer.
The younger second of the Marquis, a short man with a black moustache, bowed politely, and said --
The sight of an acquaintance and distinguished fellow-townsman coming to pieces in the open air is unusual, and, upon the whole, sufficient for one day.
Colonel Ducroix, I would in no way influence your actions, but if you feel with me that our present society is a little abnormal, I am now going to walk back to the town.
Colonel Ducroix moved mechanically, but then tugged abruptly at his white moustache and broke out --
If these gentlemen are really in a mess with a lot of low wreckers like that, I'll see them through it.
I have fought for France, and it is hard if I can't fight for civilization.
Dr. Bull took off his hat and waved it, cheering as at a public meeting.
cried Bull, and dropped his hat.
if this is true the whole bally lot of us on the Anarchist Council were against anarchy!
Every born man was a detective except the President and his personal secretary.
said the new policeman with incredible violence.
Don't you know that his jokes are always so big and simple that one has never thought of them?
Can you think of anything more like Sunday than this, that he should put all his powerful enemies on the Supreme Council, and then take care that it was not supreme?
I tell you he has bought every trust, he has captured every cable, he has control of every railway line-especially of that railway line!
and he pointed a shaking finger towards the small wayside station.
But there were just five people, perhaps, who would have resisted him.
Idiots that we are, he planned the whole of our idiocies!
Sunday knew that the Professor would chase Syme through London, and that Syme would fight me in France.
And he was combining great masses of capital, and seizing great lines of telegraphy, while we five idiots were running after each other like a lot of confounded babies playing blind man's buff.
asked Syme with a sort of steadiness.
He has probably captured the world; it only remains to him to capture this field and all the fools in it.
And since you really want to know what was my objection to the arrival of that train, I will tell you.
My objection was that Sunday or his Secretary has just this moment got out of it.
Syme uttered an involuntary cry, and they all turned their eyes towards the far-off station.
It was quite true that a considerable bulk of people seemed to be moving in their direction.
But they were too distant to be distinguished in any way.
Either the President or the Secretary is coming after us with that mob.
They have caught us in a nice quiet place where we are under no temptations to break our oaths by calling the police.
Dr. Bull, I have a suspicion that you will see better through these than through your own highly decorative spectacles.
He handed the field-glasses to the Doctor, who immediately took off his spectacles and put the apparatus to his eyes.
Syme almost tore the glasses out of his hand, and looked through them.
Most men in the advancing mob really looked ordinary enough; but it was quite true that two or three of the leaders in front wore black half-masks almost down to their mouths.
This disguise is very complete, especially at such a distance, and Syme found it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front.
But presently as they talked they all smiled and one of them smiled on one side.
SYME put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief.
answered Syme somewhat irritably.
I believe this ground would shake.
After an instant's pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision --
I wish to Gemini he were.
Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral.
It is quite true," he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, " it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you make out.
But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely calculated to our value-we are not much, my boy, in Sunday's universe.
He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself.
But to kill the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a post card; it may be left to his private secretary," and he spat on the grass.
Then he turned to the others and said somewhat austerely --
With these words, he turned his broad back and strode with silent energy towards the wood.
The others gave one glance over their shoulders, and saw that the dark cloud of men had detached itself from the station and was moving with a mysterious discipline across the plain.
They saw already, even with the naked eye, black blots on the foremost faces, which marked the masks they wore.
They turned and followed their leader, who had already struck the wood, and disappeared among the twinkling trees.
The sun on the grass was dry and hot.
So in plunging into the wood they had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool.
The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows.
They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph.
Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them.
Now a man's head was lit as with a light of Rembrandt, leaving all else obliterated; now again he had strong and staring white hands with the face of a negro.
The ex-Marquis had pulled the old straw hat over his eyes, and the black shade of the brim cut his face so squarely in two that it seemed to be wearing one of the black half-masks of their pursuers.
The fancy tinted Syme's overwhelming sense of wonder.
Was anyone wearing a mask?
That tragic self-confidence which he had felt when he believed that the Marquis was a devil had strangely disappeared now that he knew that the Marquis was a friend.
He felt almost inclined to ask after all these bewilderments what was a friend and what an enemy.
Was there anything that was apart from what it seemed?
The Marquis had taken off his nose and turned out to be a detective.
Might he not just as well take off his head and turn out to be a hobgoblin?
Was not everything, after all, like this bewildering woodland, this dance of dark and light?
Everything only a glimpse, the glimpse always unforeseen, and always forgotten.
For Gabriel Syme had found in the heart of that sun-splashed wood what many modern painters had found there.
He had found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism, which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe.
As a man in an evil dream strains himself to scream and wake, Syme strove with a sudden effort to fling off this last and worst of his fancies.
With two impatient strides he overtook the man in the Marquis's straw hat, the man whom he had come to address as Ratcliffe.
In a voice exaggeratively loud and cheerful, he broke the bottomless silence and made conversation.
So genuine had been the doubts of his soul, that he was quite glad to hear his companion speak in an easy, human voice.
Surely not many working men are anarchists, and surely if they were, mere mobs could not beat modern armies and police.
repeated his new friend with a snort of scorn.
You've got that eternal idiotic idea that if anarchy came it would come from the poor.
The poor have been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government.
The poor man really has a stake in the country.
The rich man hasn't; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht.
The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all.
Aristocrats were always anarchists, as you can see from the barons'wars.
That is why he has got hold of all the communications; and that is why the last four champions of the anti-anarchist police force are running through a wood like rabbits.
But getting hold of a few wicked old gentlemen with hobbies is one thing; getting hold of great Christian nations is another.
I would bet the nose off my face (forgive the allusion) that Sunday would stand perfectly helpless before the task of converting any ordinary healthy person anywhere.
They had come to an open space of sunlight, which seemed to express to Syme the final return of his own good sense; and in the middle of this forest clearing was a figure that might well stand for that common sense in an almost awful actuality.
Burnt by the sun and stained with perspiration, and grave with the bottomless gravity of small necessary toils, a heavy French peasant was cutting wood with a hatchet.
His cart stood a few yards off, already half full of timber; and the horse that cropped the grass was, like his master, valorous but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad.
The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold.
But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy.
Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind.
And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to stand and stamp while the French Colonel talked to the French wood-cutter with all the leisurely badinage and bickering of market-day.
At the end of the four minutes, however, they saw that the Colonel was right, for the wood-cutter entered into their plans, not with the vague servility of a tout too-well paid, but with the seriousness of a solicitor who had been paid the proper fee.
The whole company, therefore, piled themselves on top of the stacks of wood, and went rocking in the rude cart down the other and steeper side of the woodland.
Heavy and ramshackle as was the vehicle, it was driven quickly enough, and they soon had the exhilarating impression of distancing altogether those, whoever they were, who were hunting them.
For, after all, the riddle as to where the anarchists had got all these followers was still unsolved.
One man's presence had sufficed for them; they had fled at the first sight of the deformed smile of the Secretary.
Syme every now and then looked back over his shoulder at the army on their track.
As the wood grew first thinner and then smaller with distance, he could see the sunlit slopes beyond it and above it; and across these was still moving the square black mob like one monstrous beetle.
In the very strong sunlight and with his own very strong eyes, which were almost telescopic, Syme could see this mass of men quite plainly.
He could see them as separate human figures; but he was increasingly surprised by the way in which they moved as one man.
They seemed to be dressed in dark clothes and plain hats, like any common crowd out of the streets; but they did not spread and sprawl and trail by various lines to the attack, as would be natural in an ordinary mob.
They moved with a sort of dreadful and wicked woodenness, like a staring army of automatons.
Syme pointed this out to Ratcliffe.
He is perhaps five hundred miles off, but the fear of him is on all of them, like the finger of God.
Yes, they are walking regularly; and you bet your boots that they are talking regularly, yes, and thinking regularly.
But the one important thing for us is that they are disappearing regularly.
It was true that the black patch of the pursuing men was growing smaller and smaller as the peasant belaboured his horse.
The level of the sunlit landscape, though flat as a whole, fell away on the farther side of the wood in billows of heavy slope towards the sea, in a way not unlike the lower slopes of the Sussex downs.
The only difference was that in Sussex the road would have been broken and angular like a little brook, but here the white French road fell sheer in front of them like a waterfall.
Down this direct descent the cart clattered at a considerable angle, and in a few minutes, the road growing yet steeper, they saw below them the little harbour of Lancy and a great blue arc of the sea.
The travelling cloud of their enemies had wholly disappeared from the horizon.
The horse and cart took a sharp turn round a clump of elms, and the horse's nose nearly struck the face of an old gentleman who was sitting on the benches outside the little cafe of " Le Soleil d'Or.
The peasant grunted an apology, and got down from his seat.
The others also descended one by one, and spoke to the old gentleman with fragmentary phrases of courtesy, for it was quite evident from his expansive manner that he was the owner of the little tavern.
He was a white-haired, apple-faced old boy, with sleepy eyes and a grey moustache; stout, sedentary, and very innocent, of a type that may often be found in France, but is still commoner in Catholic Germany.
Everything about him, his pipe, his pot of beer, his flowers, and his beehive, suggested an ancestral peace; only when his visitors looked up as they entered the inn-parlour, they saw the sword upon the wall.
The Colonel, who greeted the innkeeper as an old friend, passed rapidly into the inn-parlour, and sat down ordering some ritual refreshment.
The military decision of his action interested Syme, who sat next to him, and he took the opportunity when the old innkeeper had gone out of satisfying his curiosity.
Colonel Ducroix smiled behind his bristly white moustache.
We came here because this is the only place within twenty miles in which we can get horses.
repeated Syme, looking up quickly.
My friend, whom I seconded under somewhat deceptive circumstances, seems to me to exaggerate very much the possibilities of a general rising; but even he would hardly maintain, I suppose, that you were not safe with the gendarmes.
Syme nodded gravely; then he said abruptly --
Syme looked up at the wall, and saw a crudely-painted and pathetic religious picture.
Those enemies of yours gave no impression of hurry, but they were really moving wonderfully fast, like a well-trained army.
I had no idea that the anarchists had so much discipline.
You have not a moment to waste.
Almost as he spoke, the old innkeeper with the blue eyes and white hair came ambling into the room, and announced that six horses were saddled outside.
By Ducroix's advice the five others equipped themselves with some portable form of food and wine, and keeping their duelling swords as the only weapons available, they clattered away down the steep, white road.
The two servants, who had carried the Marquis's luggage when he was a marquis, were left behind to drink at the cafe by common consent, and not at all against their own inclination.
By this time the afternoon sun was slanting westward, and by its rays Syme could see the sturdy figure of the old innkeeper growing smaller and smaller, but still standing and looking after them quite silently, the sunshine in his silver hair.
Syme had a fixed, superstitious fancy, left in his mind by the chance phrase of the Colonel, that this was indeed, perhaps, the last honest stranger whom he should ever see upon the earth.
He was still looking at this dwindling figure, which stood as a mere grey blot touched with a white flame against the great green wall of the steep down behind him.
And as he stared over the top of the down behind the innkeeper, there appeared an army of black-clad and marching men.
They seemed to hang above the good man and his house like a black cloud of locusts.
The horses had been saddled none too soon.
URGING the horses to a gallop, without respect to the rather rugged descent of the road, the horsemen soon regained their advantage over the men on the march, and at last the bulk of the first buildings of Lancy cut off the sight of their pursuers.
Nevertheless, the ride had been a long one, and by the time they reached the real town the west was warming with the colour and quality of sunset.
The Colonel suggested that, before making finally for the police station, they should make the effort, in passing, to attach to themselves one more individual who might be useful.
I suppose the proportion is pretty equal all over the world.
The fifth is a friend of mine, and a very fine fellow; and what is even more important from our point of view, he owns a motor-car.
For a second they all sat as still as equestrian statues, and for a second-for two or three or four seconds-heaven and earth seemed equally still.
Then all their ears, in an agony of attention, heard along the road that indescribable thrill and throb that means only one thing-horses!
The Colonel's face had an instantaneous change, as if lightning had struck it, and yet left it scatheless.
asked Syme, as he mechanically urged his steed to a canter.
The Colonel was silent for a little, then he said in a strained voice --
said Syme violently, " I don't believe he'd do it.
Not with all that white hair.
With these words he swung his horse suddenly round a street corner, and went down the street with such thundering speed, that the others, though already well at the gallop, had difficulty in following the flying tail of his horse.
Dr. Renard inhabited a high and comfortable house at the top of a steep street, so that when the riders alighted at his door they could once more see the solid green ridge of the hill, with the white road across it, standing up above all the roofs of the town.
They breathed again to see that the road as yet was clear, and they rang the bell.
Dr. Renard was a beaming, brown-bearded man, a good example of that silent but very busy professional class which France has preserved even more perfectly than England.
When the matter was explained to him he pooh-poohed the panic of the ex-Marquis altogether; he said, with the solid French scepticism, that there was no conceivable probability of a general anarchist rising.
They all looked round, and saw a curve of black cavalry come sweeping over the top of the hill with all the energy of Attila.
Swiftly as they rode, however, the whole rank still kept well together, and they could see the black vizards of the first line as level as a line of uniforms.
But although the main black square was the same, though travelling faster, there was now one sensational difference which they could see clearly upon the slope of the hill, as if upon a slanted map.
The bulk of the riders were in one block; but one rider flew far ahead of the column, and with frantic movements of hand and heel urged his horse faster and faster, so that one might have fancied that he was not the pursuer but the pursued.
But even at that great distance they could see something so fanatical, so unquestionable in his figure, that they knew it was the Secretary himself.
Let us go round to the garage.
Dr. Renard was a mild man with monstrous wealth; his rooms were like the Musee de Cluny, and he had three motor-cars.
These, however, he seemed to use very sparingly, having the simple tastes of the French middle class, and when his impatient friends came to examine them, it took them some time to assure themselves that one of them even could be made to work.
This with some difficulty they brought round into the street before the Doctor's house.
When they came out of the dim garage they were startled to find that twilight had already fallen with the abruptness of night in the tropics.
Either they had been longer in the place than they imagined, or some unusual canopy of cloud had gathered over the town.
They looked down the steep streets, and seemed to see a slight mist coming up from the sea.
And as they listened, it was evident that the noise, rapidly coming nearer on the rattling stones, was not the noise of the whole cavalcade but that of the one horseman, who had left it far behind-the insane Secretary.
Syme's family, like most of those who end in the simple life, had once owned a motor, and he knew all about them.
He had leapt at once into the chauffeur's seat, and with flushed face was wrenching and tugging at the disused machinery.
He bent his strength upon one handle, and then said quite quietly --
As he spoke, there swept round the corner a man rigid on his rushing horse, with the rush and rigidity of an arrow.
He had a smile that thrust out his chin as if it were dislocated.
He swept alongside of the stationary car, into which its company had crowded, and laid his hand on the front.
It was the Secretary, and his mouth went quite straight in the solemnity of triumph.
Syme was leaning hard upon the steering wheel, and there was no sound but the rumble of the other pursuers riding into the town.
Then there came quite suddenly a scream of scraping iron, and the car leapt forward.
It plucked the Secretary clean out of his saddle, as a knife is whipped out of its sheath, trailed him kicking terribly for twenty yards, and left him flung flat upon the road far in front of his frightened horse.
As the car took the corner of the street with a splendid curve, they could just see the other anarchists filling the street and raising their fallen leader.
It was obviously an antique, and it would seem as if its original use had been in some way semi-religious, for there was a rude moulding of a cross upon one of its sides.
While our friend here was fighting with the steering wheel, I ran up the front steps of the house and spoke to Renard, who was standing in his own porch, you will remember.
He looked up, blinking amiably at the beautiful arched ceiling of his own front hall.
From this was suspended, by chains of exquisite ironwork, this lantern, one of the hundred treasures of his treasure house.
By sheer force he tore the lamp out of his own ceiling, shattering the painted panels, and bringing down two blue vases with his violence.
Then he handed me the iron lantern, and I put it in the car.
Was I not right when I said that Dr. Renard was worth knowing?
There was a certain allegory of their whole position in the contrast between the modern automobile and its strange ecclesiastical lamp.
Hitherto they had passed through the quietest part of the town, meeting at most one or two pedestrians, who could give them no hint of the peace or the hostility of the place.
Now, however, the windows in the houses began one by one to be lit up, giving a greater sense of habitation and humanity.
Dr. Bull turned to the new detective who had led their flight, and permitted himself one of his natural and friendly smiles.
Inspector Ratcliffe drew his brows together.
Please God we may be there in ten minutes.
Then all Bull's boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him.
If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us.
While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.
No," said the Professor, " it is not horses, and it is not behind us.
Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past.
They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard's garage.
said the Colonel angrily.
There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly --
The plain people of a peaceable French town --
He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes.
As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear.
said the Colonel, " someone has shot at us.
You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town.
The staring Colonel was long past minding satire.
He rolled his eyes all round the street.
However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie.
He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him.
Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture.
The town is in arms, as I said it was.
I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude.
And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road.
Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea.
The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold.
Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre.
It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot.
But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing.
There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street.
I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets.
Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them.
The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter.
he cried, " what did I tell you.
That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side.
asked the professor, staring.
They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out --
Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane.
He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out --
An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head.
For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road.
Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe.
Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled.
Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat.
But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you.
I don't think what you think.
I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers.
No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper.
No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't.
Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear.
And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper.
But you're not right about Renard.
I suspected him from the first.
He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich.
When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich.
The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze.
The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation.
It must be a practical joke.
If you knew Renard as I do-it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter.
If you had got the man's character into your head --
cried the Colonel, stamping.
He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward.
But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy.
The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance.
I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat.
We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them.
Give the Colonel a chance.
In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme.
Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled.
He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom.
He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair.
The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die.
cried the Professor, seizing his arm.
said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star.
The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light.
said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands.
The next instant the automobile had come with a catastrophic jar against an iron object.
The instant after that four men had crawled out from under a chaos of metal, and a tall lean lamp-post that had stood up straight on the edge of the marine parade stood out, bent and twisted, like the branch of a broken tree.
As they spoke, the white-haired horseman and his followers came thundering from above, and almost at the same moment a dark string of men ran shouting along the sea-front.
Syme snatched a sword, and took it in his teeth; he stuck two others under his arm-pits, took a fourth in his left hand and the lantern in his right, and leapt off the high parade on to the beach below.
The others leapt after him, with a common acceptance of such decisive action, leaving the debris and the gathering mob above them.
We can't get there, for they hold the way.
But there's a pier or breakwater runs out into the sea just here, which we could defend longer than anything else, like Horatius and his bridge.
We must defend it till the Gendarmerie turn out.
They followed him as he went crunching down the beach, and in a second or two their boots broke not on the sea gravel, but on broad, flat stones.
They marched down a long, low jetty, running out in one arm into the dim, boiling sea, and when they came to the end of it they felt that they had come to the end of their story.
They turned and faced the town.
That town was transfigured with uproar.
All along the high parade from which they had just descended was a dark and roaring stream of humanity, with tossing arms and fiery faces, groping and glaring towards them.
The long dark line was dotted with torches and lanterns; but even where no flame lit up a furious face, they could see in the farthest figure, in the most shadowy gesture, an organised hate.
It was clear that they were the accursed of all men, and they knew not why.
Two or three men, looking little and black like monkeys, leapt over the edge as they had done and dropped on to the beach.
These came ploughing down the deep sand, shouting horribly, and strove to wade into the sea at random.
The example was followed, and the whole black mass of men began to run and drip over the edge like black treacle.
Foremost among the men on the beach Syme saw the peasant who had driven their cart.
He splashed into the surf on a huge cart-horse, and shook his axe at them.
said Bull desperately; " there must be some people left in the town who are human.
We are the last of mankind.
Then he added in his dreamy voice, " What is all that at the end of the'Dunciad '?
thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored; Light dies before thine uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.'
cried Bull suddenly, " the gendarmes are out.
The low lights of the police station were indeed blotted and broken with hurrying figures, and they heard through the darkness the clash and jingle of a disciplined cavalry.
cried Bull in ecstacy or alarm.
As he spoke there came a long crackle of musketry, and bullets seemed to hop like hailstones on the stones in front of them.
cried the Professor, and struck his forehead.
There was a long silence, and then Ratcliffe said, looking out over the swollen sea, all a sort of grey purple --
We shall all be dead soon.
Syme turned to him and said --
Mr. Ratcliffe kept a stony silence; then at last he said quietly --
There is one insane little hope that I cannot get out of my mind.
The power of this whole planet is against us, yet I cannot help wondering whether this one silly little hope is hopeless yet.
asked Syme with curiosity.
But Sunday must have killed him by now.
All of a sudden Syme, who was standing as if blind with introspective thought, swung round and cried out, like a man waking from sleep --
I thought he was with us!
Yes," cried Bull, " where on earth is the Colonel?
cried Syme in a kind of frenzy, " not the Colonel too!
asked the other, and pointed to the beach.
Many of their pursuers had waded into the water shaking their fists, but the sea was rough, and they could not reach the pier.
Two or three figures, however, stood on the beginning of the stone footway, and seemed to be cautiously advancing down it.
The glare of a chance lantern lit up the faces of the two foremost.
One face wore a black half-mask, and under it the mouth was twisting about in such a madness of nerves that the black tuft of beard wriggled round and round like a restless, living thing.
The other was the red face and white moustache of Colonel Ducroix.
They were in earnest consultation.
I can't trust my own bodily machinery.
I feel as if my own hand might fly up and strike me.
As if to destroy the last hope or doubt, the Colonel, who saw him coming, pointed his revolver at him and fired.
The shot missed Syme, but struck his sword, breaking it short at the hilt.
Syme rushed on, and swung the iron lantern above his head.
he said, and struck the Colonel down upon the stones.
Then he turned to the Secretary, whose frightful mouth was almost foaming now, and held the lamp high with so rigid and arresting a gesture, that the man was, as it were, frozen for a moment, and forced to hear.
cried Syme in a terrible voice.
You did not light it, Better men than you, men who could believe and obey, twisted the entrails of iron and preserved the legend of fire.
There is not a street you walk on, there is not a thread you wear, that was not made as this lantern was, by denying your philosophy of dirt and rats.
You will destroy mankind; you will destroy the world.
Yet this one old Christian lantern you shall not destroy.
It shall go where your empire of apes will never have the wit to find it.
He struck the Secretary once with the lantern so that he staggered; and then, whirling it twice round his head, sent it flying far out to sea, where it flared like a roaring rocket and fell.
shouted Syme, turning his flaming face; to the three behind him.
His three companions came after him sword in hand.
Syme's sword was broken, but he rent a bludgeon from the fist of a fisherman, flinging him down.
In a moment they would have flung themselves upon the face of the mob and perished, when an interruption came.
The Secretary, ever since Syme's speech, had stood with his hand to his stricken head as if dazed; now he suddenly pulled off his black mask.
The pale face thus peeled in the lamplight revealed not so much rage as astonishment.
He put up his hand with an anxious authority.
I arrest you in the name of the law.
said Syme, and dropped his stick.
asked the Professor, and threw up his arms.
Disguised as one of you, I --
Dr. Bull tossed his sword into the sea.
And all these nice people who have been peppering us with shot thought we were the dynamiters.
I knew I couldn't be wrong about the mob," he said, beaming over the enormous multitude, which stretched away to the distance on both sides.
I'm vulgar myself, and I know.
I am now going on shore to stand a drink to everybody here.
NEXT morning five bewildered but hilarious people took the boat for Dover.
The poor old Colonel might have had some cause to complain, having been first forced to fight for two factions that didn't exist, and then knocked down with an iron lantern.
But he was a magnanimous old gentleman, and being much relieved that neither party had anything to do with dynamite, he saw them off on the pier with great geniality.
The five reconciled detectives had a hundred details to explain to each other.
The Secretary had to tell Syme how they had come to wear masks originally in order to approach the supposed enemy as fellow-conspirators;
Syme had to explain how they had fled with such swiftness through a civilised country.
But above all these matters of detail which could be explained, rose the central mountain of the matter that they could not explain.
If they were all harmless officers, what was Sunday?
If he had not seized the world, what on earth had he been up to?
Inspector Ratcliffe was still gloomy about this.
do you remember his face?
You will excuse me," he said, with a rather ghastly smile, " for being well acquainted with my secretarial duties.
Throughout their whole journey by boat and train they were highly convivial, but they instinctively kept together.
Dr. Bull, who had always been the optimist of the party, endeavoured to persuade the other four that the whole company could take the same hansom cab from Victoria; but this was over-ruled, and they went in a four-wheeler, with Dr. Bull on the box, singing.
They finished their journey at an hotel in Piccadilly Circus, so as to be close to the early breakfast next morning in Leicester Square.
Yet even then the adventures of the day were not entirely over.
Dr. Bull, discontented with the general proposal to go to bed, had strolled out of the hotel at about eleven to see and taste some of the beauties of London.
Twenty minutes afterwards, however, he came back and made quite a clamour in the hall.
Syme, who tried at first to soothe him, was forced at last to listen to his communication with quite new attention.
said Dr. Bull, with thick emphasis.
Here he is," and he pulled forward by a reluctant elbow the identical young man who five days before had marched out of the Council with thin red hair and a pale face, the first of all the sham anarchists who had been exposed.
Next morning the battalion of the reunited six marched stolidly towards the hotel in Leicester Square.
They turned in silence into the Square, and though the hotel was in the opposite corner, they saw at once the little balcony and a figure that looked too big for it.
He was sitting alone with bent head, poring over a newspaper.
But all his councillors, who had come to vote him down, crossed that Square as if they were watched out of heaven by a hundred eyes.
They had disputed much upon their policy, about whether they should leave the unmasked Gogol without and begin diplomatically, or whether they should bring him in and blow up the gunpowder at once.
The influence of Syme and Bull prevailed for the latter course, though the Secretary to the last asked them why they attacked Sunday so rashly.
They followed Syme up the dark stair in silence, and they all came out simultaneously into the broad sunlight of the morning and the broad sunlight of Sunday's smile.
What an exquisite day it is.
The Secretary, who happened to be foremost, drew himself together for a dignified outburst.
I bring you news of no such disgusting spectacles.
repeated the President, with a bright, inquiring smile.
The Secretary choked for a moment, and the President went on with a sort of smooth appeal --
Dr. Bull tore off his spectacles and broke them on the table.
I dare say it will grow on me some day.
Why did you get us all here?
Do you know who and what we are?
Are you a half-witted man playing the conspirator, or are you a clever man playing the fool?
As far as I can make out, you want me to tell you what I am, and what you are, and what this table is, and what this Council is, and what this world is for all I know.
Well, I will go so far as to rend the veil of one mystery.
If you want to know what you are, you are a set of highly well-intentioned young jackasses.
roared the President, and he rose slowly to an incredible height, like some enormous wave about to arch above them and break.
Bull, you are a man of science.
Grub in the roots of those trees and find out the truth about them.
Stare at those morning clouds.
But I tell you this, that you will have found out the truth of the last tree and the top-most cloud before the truth about me.
You will understand the sea, and I shall be still a riddle; you shall know what the stars are, and not know what I am.
Since the beginning of the world all men have hunted me like a wolf-kings and sages, and poets and lawgivers, all the churches, and all the philosophies.
But I have never been caught yet, and the skies will fall in the time I turn to bay.
I have given them a good run for their money, and I will now.
Before one of them could move, the monstrous man had swung himself like some huge ourang-outang over the balustrade of the balcony.
Yet before he dropped he pulled himself up again as on a horizontal bar, and thrusting his great chin over the edge of the balcony, said solemnly --
I am the man in the dark room, who made you all policemen.
With that he fell from the balcony, bouncing on the stones below like a great ball of india-rubber, and went bounding off towards the corner of the Alhambra, where he hailed a hansom-cab and sprang inside it.
The six detectives had been standing thunderstruck and livid in the light of his last assertion; but when he disappeared into the cab, Syme's practical senses returned to him, and leaping over the balcony so recklessly as almost to break his legs, he called another cab.
He and Bull sprang into the cab together, the Professor and the Inspector into another, while the Secretary and the late Gogol scrambled into a third just in time to pursue the flying Syme, who was pursuing the flying President.
Sunday led them a wild chase towards the north-west, his cabman, evidently under the influence of more than common inducements, urging the horse at breakneck speed.
But Syme was in no mood for delicacies, and he stood up in his own cab shouting, " Stop thief!
until crowds ran along beside his cab, and policemen began to stop and ask questions.
All this had its influence upon the President's cabman, who began to look dubious, and to slow down to a trot.
He opened the trap to talk reasonably to his fare, and in so doing let the long whip droop over the front of the cab.
Sunday leant forward, seized it, and jerked it violently out of the man's hand.
Then standing up in front of the cab himself, he lashed the horse and roared aloud, so that they went down the streets like a flying storm.
Through street after street and square after square went whirling this preposterous vehicle, in which the fare was urging the horse and the driver trying desperately to stop it.
The other three cabs came after it (if the phrase be permissible of a cab) like panting hounds.
Shops and streets shot by like rattling arrows.
At the highest ecstacy of speed, Sunday turned round on the splashboard where he stood, and sticking his great grinning head out of the cab, with white hair whistling in the wind, he made a horrible face at his pursuers, like some colossal urchin.
Then raising his right hand swiftly, he flung a ball of paper in Syme's face and vanished.
Syme caught the thing while instinctively warding it off, and discovered that it consisted of two crumpled papers.
One was addressed to himself, and the other to Dr. Bull, with a very long, and it is to be feared partly ironical, string of letters after his name.
Dr. Bull's address was, at any rate, considerably longer than his communication, for the communication consisted entirely of the words:--
asked Bull, staring at the words.
Syme's message was, at any rate, longer, and ran as follows:--
But, for the last time, where are your goloshes?
The thing is too bad, especially after what uncle said.
The President's cabman seemed to be regaining some control over his horse, and the pursuers gained a little as they swept round into the Edgware Road.
And here there occurred what seemed to the allies a providential stoppage.
Traffic of every kind was swerving to right or left or stopping, for down the long road was coming the unmistakable roar announcing the fire-engine, which in a few seconds went by like a brazen thunderbolt.
But quick as it went by, Sunday had bounded out of his cab, sprung at the fire-engine, caught it, slung himself on to it, and was seen as he disappeared in the noisy distance talking to the astonished fireman with explanatory gestures.
There's no mistaking a fire-engine.
The three cabmen, who had been stunned for a moment, whipped up their horses and slightly decreased the distance between themselves and their disappearing prey.
The President acknowledged this proximity by coming to the back of the car, bowing repeatedly, kissing his hand, and finally flinging a neatly-folded note into the bosom of Inspector Ratcliffe.
When that gentleman opened it, not without impatience, he found it contained the words:--
The truth about your trouser-stretchers is known.
Before the three cabs, however, could reach up to the spot, he had gone up the high railings like a huge grey cat, tossed himself over, and vanished in a darkness of leaves.
Syme with a furious gesture stopped his cab, jumped out, and sprang also to the escalade.
When he had one leg over the fence and his friends were following, he turned a face on them which shone quite pale in the shadow.
I've heard he has a house in North London.
said Syme furiously, " snails barking!
Did you ever hear a dog bark like that?
He held up his hand, and there came out of the thicket a long growling roar that seemed to get under the skin and freeze the flesh-a low thrilling roar that made a throbbing in the air all about them.
Syme had jumped down on the other side, but he still stood listening impatiently.
There broke upon their ear a hoarse screaming as of things protesting and clamouring in sudden pain; and then, far off like an echo, what sounded like a long nasal trumpet.
said the Secretary; " and if it is hell, I'm going in!
and he sprang over the tall railings almost with one swing.
They broke through a tangle of plants and shrubs, and came out on an open path.
Nothing was in sight, but Dr. Bull suddenly struck his hands together.
As they were looking round wildly for any trace of their wild quarry, a keeper in uniform came running along the path with a man in plain clothes.
asked Syme, with great curiosity.
He has run away with the elephant.
The elephant is not made by God that could run away with him if he did not consent to the elopement.
And, by thunder, there he is!
There was no doubt about it this time.
Clean across the space of grass, about two hundred yards away, with a crowd screaming and scampering vainly at his heels, went a huge grey elephant at an awful stride, with his trunk thrown out as rigid as a ship's bowsprit, and trumpeting like the trumpet of doom.
On the back of the bellowing and plunging animal sat President Sunday with all the placidity of a sultan, but goading the animal to a furious speed with some sharp object in his hand.
And even as he spoke, a final crash and roar of terror announced that the great grey elephant had broken out of the gates of the Zoological Gardens, and was careening down Albany Street like a new and swift sort of omnibus.
cried Bull, " I never knew an elephant could go so fast.
Well, it must be hansom-cabs again if we are to keep him in sight.
As they raced along to the gate out of which the elephant had vanished, Syme felt a glaring panorama of the strange animals in the cages which they passed.
Afterwards he thought it queer that he should have seen them so clearly.
He remembered especially seeing pelicans, with their preposterous, pendant throats.
He wondered why the pelican was the symbol of charity, except it was that it wanted a good deal of charity to admire a pelican.
He remembered a hornbill, which was simply a huge yellow beak with a small bird tied on behind it.
The whole gave him a sensation, the vividness of which he could not explain, that Nature was always making quite mysterious jokes.
Sunday had told them that they would understand him when they had understood the stars.
He wondered whether even the archangels understood the hornbill.
The six unhappy detectives flung themselves into cabs and followed the elephant sharing the terror which he spread through the long stretch of the streets.
This time Sunday did not turn round, but offered them the solid stretch of his unconscious back, which maddened them, if possible, more than his previous mockeries.
Just before they came to Baker Street, however, he was seen to throw something far up into the air, as a boy does a ball meaning to catch it again.
But at their rate of racing it fell far behind, just by the cab containing Gogol; and in faint hope of a clue or for some impulse unexplainable, he stopped his cab so as to pick it up.
It was addressed to himself, and was quite a bulky parcel.
On examination, however, its bulk was found to consist of thirty-three pieces of paper of no value wrapped one round the other.
When the last covering was torn away it reduced itself to a small slip of paper, on which was written:--
The man once known as Gogol said nothing, but the movements of his hands and feet were like those of a man urging a horse to renewed efforts.
Through street after street, through district after district, went the prodigy of the flying elephant, calling crowds to every window, and driving the traffic left and right.
And still through all this insane publicity the three cabs toiled after it, until they came to be regarded as part of a procession, and perhaps the advertisement of a circus.
They went at such a rate that distances were shortened beyond belief, and Syme saw the Albert Hall in Kensington when he thought that he was still in Paddington.
The animal's pace was even more fast and free through the empty, aristocratic streets of South Kensington, and he finally headed towards that part of the sky-line where the enormous Wheel of Earl's Court stood up in the sky.
The wheel grew larger and larger, till it filled heaven like the wheel of stars.
The beast outstripped the cabs.
They lost him round several corners, and when they came to one of the gates of the Earl's Court Exhibition they found themselves finally blocked.
In front of them was an enormous crowd; in the midst of it was an enormous elephant, heaving and shuddering as such shapeless creatures do.
But the President had disappeared.
asked Syme, slipping to the ground.
said an official in a dazed manner.
Then he added in an injured voice: " Funny gentleman, sir.
Asked me to hold his horse, and gave me this.
He held out with distaste a piece of folded paper, addressed: " To the Secretary of the Central Anarchist Council.
The Secretary, raging, rent it open, and found written inside it:--
Do people commonly come to you Exhibition riding on mad elephants?
asked the Secretary savagely.
said Syme, and pointed in a frenzy.
They all turned their eyes to where the balloon swung and swelled above the Exhibition on a string, like a child's balloon.
A second afterwards the string came in two just under the car, and the balloon, broken loose, floated away with the freedom of a soap bubble.
and he shook his fists at the sky.
The balloon, borne by some chance wind, came right above them, and they could see the great white head of the President peering over the side and looking benevolently down on them.
said the Professor with the elderly manner that he could never disconnect from his bleached beard and parchment face.
I seemed to fancy that something fell on the top of my hat!
He put up a trembling hand and took from that shelf a piece of twisted paper, which he opened absently only to find it inscribed with a true lover's knot and, the words:--
There was a short silence, and then Syme said, biting his beard --
The blasted thing must come down somewhere.
ACROSS green fields, and breaking through blooming hedges, toiled six draggled detectives, about five miles out of London.
The optimist of the party had at first proposed that they should follow the balloon across South England in hansom-cabs.
But he was ultimately convinced of the persistent refusal of the balloon to follow the roads, and the still more persistent refusal of the cabmen to follow the balloon.
Consequently the tireless though exasperated travellers broke through black thickets and ploughed through ploughed fields till each was turned into a figure too outrageous to be mistaken for a tramp.
Those green hills of Surrey saw the final collapse and tragedy of the admirable light grey suit in which Syme had set out from Saffron Park.
It might hurt the old boy.
said the vindictive Professor, " hurt him!
Not as much as I'd hurt him if I could get up with him.
cried the Secretary bitterly.
Sunday would say he was anybody.
I can't wish old Sunday's balloon to burst because --
It seems to make everything nonsense.
But I don't care who knows it, I always had a sympathy for old Sunday himself, wicked as he was.
Just as if he was a great bouncing baby.
How can I explain what my queer sympathy was?
It didn't prevent my fighting him like hell!
Shall I make it clear if I say that I liked him because he was so fat?
We always think of fat people as heavy, but he could have danced against a sylph.
Moderate strength is shown in violence, supreme strength is shown in levity.
It was like the old speculations-what would happen if an elephant could leap up in the sky like a grasshopper?
No, it's not an admiration of force, or any silly thing like that.
There is a kind of gaiety in the thing, as if he were bursting with some good news.
Haven't you sometimes felt it on a spring day?
You know Nature plays tricks, but somehow that day proves they are good-natured tricks.
I never read the Bible myself, but that part they laugh at is literal truth,'Why leap ye, ye high hills?'
The hills do leap-at least, they try to... Why do I like Sunday?.
There was a long silence, and then the Secretary said in a curious, strained voice --
Perhaps it is because you are better than I, and do not know hell.
I was a fierce fellow, and a trifle morbid from the first.
The man who sits in darkness, and who chose us all, chose me because I had all the crazy look of a conspirator-because my smile went crooked, and my eyes were gloomy, even when I smiled.
But there must have been something in me that answered to the nerves in all these anarchic men.
For when I first saw Sunday he expressed to me, not your airy vitality, but something both gross and sad in the Nature of Things.
I found him smoking in a twilight room, a room with brown blind down, infinitely more depressing than the genial darkness in which our master lives.
He sat there on a bench, a huge heap of a man, dark and out of shape.
He listened to all my words without speaking or even stirring.
I poured out my most passionate appeals, and asked my most eloquent questions.
Then, after a long silence, the Thing began to shake, and I thought it was shaken by some secret malady.
It shook like a loathsome and living jelly.
It reminded me of everything I had ever read about the base bodies that are the origin of life-the deep sea lumps and protoplasm.
It seemed like the final form of matter, the most shapeless and the most shameful.
I could only tell myself, from its shudderings, that it was something at least that such a monster could be miserable.
And then it broke upon me that the bestial mountain was shaking with a lonely laughter, and the laughter was at me.
Do you ask me to forgive him that?
It is no small thing to be laughed at by something at once lower and stronger than oneself.
He received me in an ordinary office, in a grey check coat, in broad daylight.
He talked to me in an ordinary way.
But I'll tell you what is a trifle creepy about Sunday.
His room is neat, his clothes are neat, everything seems in order; but he's absent-minded.
Sometimes his great bright eyes go quite blind.
For hours he forgets that you are there.
Now absent-mindedness is just a bit too awful in a bad man.
We think of a wicked man as vigilant.
We can't think of a wicked man who is honestly and sincerely dreamy, because we daren't think of a wicked man alone with himself.
An absentminded man means a good-natured man.
It means a man who, if he happens to see you, will apologise.
But how will you bear an absentminded man who, if he happens to see you, will kill you?
That is what tries the nerves, abstraction combined with cruelty.
Men have felt it sometimes when they went through wild forests, and felt that the animals there were at once innocent and pitiless.
They might ignore or slay.
How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlour with an absent-minded tiger?
The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all.
The Professor spoke at last very slowly.
Or, rather, I think something that I cannot even think clearly.
But it is something like this.
My early life, as you know, was a bit too large and loose.
Well, when I saw Sunday's face I thought it was too large-everybody does, but I also thought it was too loose.
The face was so big, that one couldn't focus it or make it a face at all.
The eye was so far away from the nose, that it wasn't an eye.
The mouth was so much by itself, that one had to think of it by itself.
The whole thing is too hard to explain.
He paused for a little, still trailing his stick, and then went on --
Walking up a road at night, I have seen a lamp and a lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete and unmistakable face.
If anyone in heaven has that face I shall know him again.
Yet when I walked a little farther I found that there was no face, that the window was ten yards away, the lamp ten hundred yards, the cloud beyond the world.
Well, Sunday's face escaped me; it ran away to right and left, as such chance pictures run away.
And so his face has made me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces.
I don't know whether your face, Bull, is a face or a combination in perspective.
Perhaps one black disc of your beastly glasses is quite close and another fifty miles away.
Oh, the doubts of a materialist are not worth a dump.
Sunday has taught me the last and the worst doubts, the doubts of a spiritualist.
I am a Buddhist, I suppose; and Buddhism is not a creed, it is a doubt.
My poor dear Bull, I do not believe that you really have a face.
I have not faith enough to believe in matter.
Syme's eyes were still fixed upon the errant orb, which, reddened in the evening light, looked like some rosier and more innocent world.
Each man of you finds Sunday quite different, yet each man of you can only find one thing to compare him to-the universe itself.
Bull finds him like the earth in spring, Gogol like the sun at noonday.
The Secretary is reminded of the shapeless protoplasm, and the Inspector of the carelessness of virgin forests.
The Professor says he is like a changing landscape.
This is queer, but it is queerer still that I also have had my odd notion about the President, and I also find that I think of Sunday as I think of the whole world.
His neck and shoulders were brutal, like those of some apish god.
His head had a stoop that was hardly human, like the stoop of an ox.
In fact, I had at once the revolting fancy that this was not a man at all, but a beast dressed up in men's clothes.
I had seen his back from the street, as he sat in the balcony.
Then I entered the hotel, and coming round the other side of him, saw his face in the sunlight.
His face frightened me, as it did everyone; but not because it was brutal, not because it was evil.
On the contrary, it frightened me because it was so beautiful, because it was so good.
There was laughter in the eyes, and in the mouth honour and sorrow.
There was the same white hair, the same great, grey-clad shoulders that I had seen from behind.
But when I saw him from behind I was certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he was a god.
When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask.
When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest.
Bad is so bad, that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain that evil could be explained.
But the whole came to a kind of crest yesterday when I raced Sunday for the cab, and was just behind him all the way.
I was suddenly possessed with the idea that the blind, blank back of his head really was his face-an awful, eyeless face staring at me!
And I fancied that the figure running in front of me was really a figure running backwards, and dancing as he ran.
said Dr. Bull, and shuddered.
And yet ten minutes afterwards, when he put his head out of the cab and made a grimace like a gargoyle, I knew that he was only like a father playing hide-and-seek with his children.
It is that we have only known the back of the world.
We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal.
That is not a tree, but the back of a tree.
That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud.
Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face?
If we could only get round in front --
cried out Bull clamorously, " the balloon is coming down!
There was no need to cry out to Syme, who had never taken his eyes off it.
He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun.
The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their weary travels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit.
If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun.
Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations.
Then he added with an indescribable gesture --
It would be like one of his larks.
He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind.
The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner.
And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field.
Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre.
He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland.
His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered.
His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood.
asked Syme, standing quite still.
There was a silence, and then the Secretary said --
Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself.
The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland.
He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky.
As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane.
There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered and miserable band.
All the attendants (as if in court-dress) wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them, and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel.
asked Bull of Syme as they separated.
The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort.
They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them.
They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions.
They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them; but it was quite enough that he had certainly led them to the carriages.
Syme drove through a drifting darkness of trees in utter abandonment.
It was typical of him that while he had carried his bearded chin forward fiercely so long as anything could be done, when the whole business was taken out of his hands he fell back on the cushions in a frank collapse.
Very gradually and very vaguely he realised into what rich roads the carriage was carrying him.
He saw that they passed the stone gates of what might have been a park, that they began gradually to climb a hill which, while wooded on both sides, was somewhat more orderly than a forest.
Then there began to grow upon him, as upon a man slowly waking from a healthy sleep, a pleasure in everything.
He felt that the hedges were what hedges should be, living walls; that a hedge is like a human army, disciplined, but all the more alive.
He saw high elms behind the hedges, and vaguely thought how happy boys would be climbing there.
Then his carriage took a turn of the path, and he saw suddenly and quietly, like a long, low, sunset cloud, a long, low house, mellow in the mild light of sunset.
All the six friends compared notes afterwards and quarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way the place reminded them of their boyhood.
It was either this elm-top or that crooked path, it was either this scrap of orchard or that shape of a window; but each man of them declared that he could remember this place before he could remember his mother.
When the carriages eventually rolled up to a large, low, cavernous gateway, another man in the same uniform, but wearing a silver star on the grey breast of his coat, came out to meet them.
This impressive person said to the bewildered Syme --
Syme, under the influence of the same mesmeric sleep of amazement, went up the large oaken stairs after the respectful attendant.
He entered a splendid suite of apartments that seemed to be designed specially for him.
At once the whole enigma sprang up, simply as the question of how he had got there, and how he was to get out again.
Exactly at the same moment a man in blue, who had been appointed as his valet, said very solemnly --
Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper.
But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume you have got laid out for me.
The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents.
It fastens up to the chin.
Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon.
Those orbs, I think, shine on other days.
I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember.
It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon.
Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday.
Do they provide everything?
But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream.
As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour.
For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal.
AS Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs.
The man had never looked so noble.
He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light.
The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment.
There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness.
Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man's eyes were still stern.
No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question.
If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else.
For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet who seeks always to make the light in special shapes, to split it up into sun and star.
The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite.
For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon.
As they descended the broad stairs together they overtook Ratcliffe, who was clad in spring green like a huntsman, and the pattern upon whose garment was a green tangle of trees.
For he stood for that third day on which the earth and green things were made, and his square, sensible face, with its not unfriendly cynicism, seemed appropriate enough to it.
They were led out of another broad and low gateway into a very large old English garden, full of torches and bonfires, by the broken light of which a vast carnival of people were dancing in motley dress.
Syme seemed to see every shape in Nature imitated in some crazy costume.
There was a man dressed as a windmill with enormous sails, a man dressed as an elephant, a man dressed as a balloon; the two last, together, seemed to keep the thread of their farcical adventures.
Syme even saw, with a queer thrill, one dancer dressed like an enormous hornbill, with a beak twice as big as himself-the queer bird which had fixed itself on his fancy like a living question while he was rushing down the long road at the Zoological Gardens.
There were a thousand other such objects, however.
There was a dancing lamp-post, a dancing apple tree, a dancing ship.
One would have thought that the untamable tune of some mad musician had set all the common objects of field and street dancing an eternal jig.
And long afterwards, when Syme was middle-aged and at rest, he could never see one of those particular objects-a lamppost, or an apple tree, or a windmill-without thinking that it was a strayed reveller from that revel of masquerade.
On one side of this lawn, alive with dancers, was a sort of green bank, like the terrace in such old-fashioned gardens.
Along this, in a kind of crescent, stood seven great chairs, the thrones of the seven days.
Gogol and Dr. Bull were already in their seats; the Professor was just mounting to his.
Gogol, or Tuesday, had his simplicity well symbolised by a dress designed upon the division of the waters, a dress that separated upon his forehead and fell to his feet, grey and silver, like a sheet of rain.
The Professor, whose day was that on which the birds and fishes-the ruder forms of life-were created, had a dress of dim purple, over which sprawled goggle-eyed fishes and outrageous tropical birds, the union in him of unfathomable fancy and of doubt.
Dr. Bull, the last day of Creation, wore a coat covered with heraldic animals in red and gold, and on his crest a man rampant.
He lay back in his chair with a broad smile, the picture of an optimist in his element.
One by one the wanderers ascended the bank and sat in their strange seats.
As each of them sat down a roar of enthusiasm rose from the carnival, such as that with which crowds receive kings.
Cups were clashed and torches shaken, and feathered hats flung in the air.
The men for whom these thrones were reserved were men crowned with some extraordinary laurels.
But the central chair was empty.
Syme was on the left hand of it and the Secretary on the right.
The Secretary looked across the empty throne at Syme, and said, compressing his lips --
Almost as Syme heard the words, he saw on the sea of human faces in front of him a frightful and beautiful alteration, as if heaven had opened behind his head.
But Sunday had only passed silently along the front like a shadow, and had sat in the central seat.
He was draped plainly, in a pure and terrible white, and his hair was like a silver flame on his forehead.
For a long time-it seemed for hours-that huge masquerade of mankind swayed and stamped in front of them to marching and exultant music.
Every couple dancing seemed a separate romance; it might be a fairy dancing with a pillar-box, or a peasant girl dancing with the moon; but in each case it was, somehow, as absurd as Alice in Wonderland, yet as grave and kind as a love story.
At last, however, the thick crowd began to thin itself.
Couples strolled away into the garden-walks, or began to drift towards that end of the building where stood smoking, in huge pots like fish-kettles, some hot and scented mixtures of old ale or wine.
Above all these, upon a sort of black framework on the roof of the house, roared in its iron basket a gigantic bonfire, which lit up the land for miles.
It flung the homely effect of firelight over the face of vast forests of grey or brown, and it seemed to fill with warmth even the emptiness of upper night.
Yet this also, after a time, was allowed to grow fainter; the dim groups gathered more and more round the great cauldrons, or passed, laughing and clattering, into the inner passages of that ancient house.
Soon there were only some ten loiterers in the garden; soon only four.
Finally the last stray merry-maker ran into the house whooping to his companions.
The fire faded, and the slow, strong stars came out.
And the seven strange men were left alone, like seven stone statues on their chairs of stone.
Not one of them had spoken a word.
They seemed in no haste to do so, but heard in silence the hum of insects and the distant song of one bird.
Then Sunday spoke, but so dreamily that he might have been continuing a conversation rather than beginning one.
I seem to remember only centuries of heroic war, in which you were always heroes-epic on epic, iliad on iliad, and you always brothers in arms.
Whether it was but recently (for time is nothing), or at the beginning of the world, I sent you out to war.
I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue.
You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again.
The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it.
And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself.
Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on.
You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you.
I knew how near you were to hell.
I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope.
There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice --
The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand.
I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation.
Well, I am not reconciled.
If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight?
If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy?
We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls-and you are the peace of God!
Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace.
Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question.
I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight.
But I should like to know.
My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out.
Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said --
In fact, I am going to sleep.
You let me stray a little too near to hell.
And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child --
Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance.
And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also.
The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass.
Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure.
He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable.
He had, like the servants, a kind of word by his side.
gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat.
I would destroy the world if I could.
A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and he spoke brokenly and without sequence.
You have red hair like your sister.
Then out of this unintelligible creature the last thunders broke.
I know what you are all of you, from first to last-you are the people in power!
You are the police-the great fat, smiling men in blue and buttons!
You are the Law, and you have never been broken.
But is there a free soul alive that does not long to break you, only because you have never been broken?
We in revolt talk all kind of nonsense doubtless about this crime or that crime of the Government.
The only crime of the Government is that it governs.
The unpardonable sin of the supreme power is that it is supreme.
I do not curse you for being cruel.
I do not curse you (though I might) for being kind.
I curse you for being safe!
You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come down from them.
You are the seven angels of heaven, and you have had no troubles.
Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule all mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for one hour a real agony such as I --
Syme sprang to his feet, shaking from head to foot.
Why does each thing on the earth war against each other thing?
Why does each small thing in the world have to fight against the world itself?
Why does a fly have to fight the whole universe?
Why does a dandelion have to fight the whole universe?
For the same reason that I had to be alone in the dreadful Council of the Days.
So that each thing that obeys law may have the glory and isolation of the anarchist.
So that each man fighting for order may be as brave and good a man as the dynamiter.
So that the real lie of Satan may be flung back in the face of this blasphemer, so that by tears and torture we may earn the right to say to this man,'You lie!'
No agonies can be too great to buy the right to say to this accuser,'We also have suffered.'
We have been broken upon the wheel.
It is not true that we have never descended from these thrones.
We have descended into hell.
We were complaining of unforgettable miseries even at the very moment when this man entered insolently to accuse us of happiness.
I repel the slander; we have not been happy.
I can answer for every one of the great guards of Law whom he has accused.
He had turned his eyes so as to see suddenly the great face of Sunday, which wore a strange smile.
As he gazed, the great face grew to an awful size, grew larger than the colossal mask of Memnon, which had made him scream as a child.
It grew larger and larger, filling the whole sky; then everything went black.
Only in the blackness before it entirely destroyed his brain he seemed to hear a distant voice saying a commonplace text that he had heard somewhere, " Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of?
When men in books awake from a vision, they commonly find themselves in some place in which they might have fallen asleep; they yawn in a chair, or lift themselves with bruised limbs from a field.
Syme's experience was something much more psychologically strange if there was indeed anything unreal, in the earthly sense, about the things he had gone through.
For while he could always remember afterwards that he had swooned before the face of Sunday, he could not remember having ever come to at all.
He could only remember that gradually and naturally he knew that he was and had been walking along a country lane with an easy and conversational companion.
That companion had been a part of his recent drama; it was the red-haired poet Gregory.
They were walking like old friends, and were in the middle of a conversation about some triviality.
But Syme could only feel an unnatural buoyancy in his body and a crystal simplicity in his mind that seemed to be superior to everything that he said or did.
He felt he was in possession of some impossible good news, which made every other thing a triviality, but an adorable triviality.
Dawn was breaking over everything in colours at once clear and timid; as if Nature made a first attempt at yellow and a first attempt at rose.
A breeze blew so clean and sweet, that one could not think that it blew from the sky; it blew rather through some hole in the sky.
Syme felt a simple surprise when he saw rising all round him on both sides of the road the red, irregular buildings of Saffron Park.
He had no idea that he had walked so near London.
He walked by instinct along one white road, on which early birds hopped and sang, and found himself outside a fenced garden.
There he saw the sister of Gregory, the girl with the gold-red hair, cutting lilac before breakfast, with the great unconscious gravity of a girl.
Near the ruins of the castle of Rossmore, in Ireland, is a small cabin, in which there once lived a widow and her four children.
Mary was at this time about twelve years old.
One evening she was sitting at the foot of her mother's bed spinning, and her little brothers and sisters were gathered round the fire eating their potatoes and milk for supper.
said the widow, who, as she lay on her bed, which she knew must be her deathbed, was thinking of what would become of her children after she was gone.
Mary stopped her wheel, for she was afraid that the noise of it had wakened her mother, and would hinder her from going to sleep again.
But don't overwork yourself, Mary.
And one thing comforts my heart, even as I AM lying here, that not a soul in the wide world I am leaving has to complain of me.
Though poor I have lived honest, and I have brought you up to be the same, Mary; and I am sure the little ones will take after you; for you'll be good to them-as good to them as you can.
Here the children, who had finished eating their suppers, came round the bed, to listen to what their mother was saying.
She was tired of speaking, for she was very weak; but she took their little hands, as they laid them on the bed and joining them all together, she said, " Bless you, dears; bless you; love and help one another all you can.
Mary took the children away to their bed, for she saw that their mother was too ill to say more; but Mary did not herself know how ill she was.
Her mother never spoke rightly afterwards, but talked in a confused way about some debts, and one in particular, which she owed to a schoolmistress for Mary's schooling; and then she charged Mary to go and pay it, because she was not able to GO IN with it.
At the end of the week she was dead and buried, and the orphans were left alone in their cabin.
The two youngest girls, Peggy and Nancy, were six and seven years old.
Edmund was not yet nine, but he was a stout-grown, healthy boy, and well disposed to work.
As for Peggy and Nancy, it was little that they could do; but they were good children, and Mary, when she considered that so much depended upon her, was resolved to exert herself to the utmost.
Her first care was to pay those debts which her mother had mentioned to her, for which she left money done up carefully in separate papers.
When all these were paid away, there was not enough left to pay both the rent of the cabin and a year's schooling for herself and sisters which was due to the schoolmistress in a neighbouring village.
Mary was in hopes that the rent would not be called for immediately, but in this she was disappointed.
Mr. Harvey, the gentleman on whose estate she lived, was in England, and, in his absence, all was managed by a Mr. Hopkins, an agent, who was a HARD MAN.
The driver finished by hinting that she would not be so hardly used if she had not brought upon herself the ill-will of Miss Alice, the agent's daughter.
Mary, it is true, had refused to give Miss Alice a goat upon which she had set her fancy; but this was the only offence of which she had been guilty, and at the time she refused it her mother wanted the goat's milk, which was the only thing she then liked to drink.
Mary went immediately to Mr. Hopkins, the agent, to pay her rent; and she begged of him to let her stay another year in her cabin; but this he refused.
It was now September 25th, and he said that the new tenant must come in on the 29th, so that she must quit it directly.
Mary could not bear the thoughts of begging any of the neighbours to take her and her brother and sisters in FOR CHARITY'S SAKE; for the neighbours were all poor enough themselves.
So she bethought herself that she might find shelter in the ruins of the old castle of Rossmore where she and her brother, in better times, had often played at hide and seek.
The kitchen and two other rooms near it were yet covered in tolerably well; and a little thatch, she thought, would make them comfortable through the winter.
The agent consented to let her and her brother and sisters go in there, upon her paying him half a guinea in hand, and promising to pay the same yearly.
Into these lodgings the orphans now removed, taking with them two bedsteads, a stool, chair and a table, a sort of press, which contained what little clothes they had, and a chest in which they had two hundred of meal.
The chest was carried for them by some of the charitable neighbours, who likewise added to their scanty stock of potatoes and turf what would make it last through the winter.
These children were well thought of and pitied, because their mother was known to have been all her life honest and industrious.
The half-guinea which Mr. Hopkins, the agent, required for letting Mary into the castle, was part of what she had to pay to the schoolmistress, to whom above a guinea was due.
Mary went to her, and took her goat along with her, and offered it in part of payment of the debt, but the schoolmistress would not receive the goat.
She said that she could afford to wait for her money till Mary was able to pay it; that she knew her to be an honest, industrious little girl, and she would trust her with more than a guinea.
Mary thanked her; and she was glad to take the goat home again, as she was very fond of it.
When they had done work one day, Annie went to the master of the paper-mill and asked him if she might have two sheets of large white paper which were lying on the press.
She offered a penny for the paper; but the master would not take anything from her, but gave her the paper when he found that she wanted it to make a garland for her mother's grave.
Annie and Peggy cut out the garland, and Mary, when it was finished, went along with them and Edmund to put it up.
It was just a month after their mother's death.
It happened, at the time the orphans were putting up this garland, that two young ladies, who were returning home after their evening walk, stopped at the gate of the churchyard to look at the red light which the setting sun cast upon the window of the church.
As the ladies were standing at the gate, they heard a voice near them crying, " O, mother!
They could not see anyone, so they walked softly round to the other side of the church, and there they saw Mary kneeling beside a grave, on which her brothers and sisters were hanging their white garlands.
The children all stood still when they saw the two ladies passing near them; but Mary did not know anybody was passing, for her face was hid in her hands.
Isabella and Caroline (so these ladies were called) would not disturb the poor children; but they stopped in the village to inquire about them.
It was at the house of the schoolmistress that they stopped, and she gave them a good account of these orphans.
She particularly commended Mary's honesty, in having immediately paid all her mother's debts to the utmost farthing, as far as her money would go.
When they went there, they found the room in which the children lived as clean and neat as such a ruined place could be made.
Edmund was out working with a farmer, Mary was spinning, and her little sisters were measuring out some bogberries, of which they had gathered a basketful, for sale.
Isabella, after telling Mary what an excellent character she had heard of her, inquired what it was she most wanted; and Mary said that she had just worked up all her flax, and she was most in want of more flax for her wheel.
Isabella promised that she would send her a fresh supply of flax, and Caroline bought the bogberries from the little girls, and gave them money enough to buy a pound of coarse cotton for knitting, as Mary said that she could teach them how to knit.
The supply of flax, which Isabella sent the next day, was of great service to Mary, as it kept her in employment for above a month; and when she sold the yarn which she had spun with it, she had money enough to buy some warm flannel for winter wear.
Besides spinning well, she had learned at school to do plain work tolerably neatly, and Isabella and Caroline employed her to work for them; by which she earned a great deal more than she could by spinning.
At her leisure hours she taught her sisters to read and write; and Edmund, with part of the money which he earned by his work out of doors, paid a schoolmaster for teaching him a little arithmetic.
When the winter nights came on, he used to light his rush candles for Mary to work by.
He had gathered and stripped a good provision of rushes in the month of August, and a neighbour gave him grease to dip them in.
One evening, just as he had lighted his candles, a footman came in, who was sent by Isabella with some plain work to Mary.
This servant was an Englishman, and he was but newly come over to Ireland.
The rush candles caught his attention; for he had never seen any of them before, as he came from a part of England where they were not used.
Edmund, who was ready to oblige, and proud that his candles were noticed showed the Englishman how they were made, and gave him a bundle of rushes.
These rushes are in best condition in the height of summer, but may be gathered so as to serve the purpose well quite on to autumn.
The largest and longest are the best.
Decayed labourers, women, and children make it their business to procure and prepare them.
As soon as they are cut, they must be flung into water, and kept there; for otherwise they will dry and shrink, and the peel will not run.
When these junci are thus far prepared, they must lie out on the grass to be bleached and take the dew for some nights, and afterwards be dried in the sun.
Some address is required in dipping these rushes in the scalding fat or grease; but this knack is also to be attained by practice.
A pound of common grease may be procured for fourpence, and about six pounds of grease will dip a pound of rushes and one pound of rushes may be bought for one shilling; so that a pound of rushes, medicated and ready for use, will cost three shillings."]
The servant was pleased with his good nature in this trifling instance, and remembered it long after it was forgotten by Edmund.
Whenever his master wanted to send a messenger anywhere, Gilbert (for that was the servant's name) always employed his little friend Edmund, whom, upon further acquaintance, he liked better and better.
He found that Edmund was both quick and exact in executing commissions.
One day, after he had waited a great while at a gentleman's house for an answer to a letter, he was so impatient to get home that he ran off without it.
When he was questioned by Gilbert why he did not bring an answer, he did not attempt to make any excuse; he did not say, " There was no answer, please your honour," or, " They bid me not to wait," etc.
After this he was always believed when he said, " There was no answer," or, " They bid me not wait "; for Gilbert knew that he would not tell a lie to save himself from being scolded.
The orphans continued to assist one another in their work according to their strength and abilities; and they went on in this manner for three years.
With what Mary got by her spinning and plain work, and Edmund by leading of cart-horses, going on errands, etc., and with little Peggy and Anne's earnings, the family contrived to live comfortably.
Isabella and Caroline often visited them, and sometimes gave them clothes, and sometimes flax or cotton for their spinning and knitting; and these children did not EXPECT, that because the ladies did something for them, they should do everything.
They did not grow idle or wasteful.
When Edmund was about twelve years old, his friend Gilbert sent for him one day, and told him that his master had given him leave to have a boy in the house to assist him, and that his master told him he might choose one in the neighbourhood.
Several were anxious to get into such a good place: but Gilbert said that he preferred Edmund before them all, because he knew him to be an industrious, honest, good natured lad, who always told the truth.
So Edmund went into service at the vicarage; and his master was the father of Isabella and Caroline.
He found his new way of life very pleasant; for he was well fed, well clothed, and well treated; and he every day learned more of his business, in which at first he was rather awkward.
He was mindful to do all that Mr. Gilbert required of him; and he was so obliging to all his fellow-servants that they could not help liking him.
But there was one thing which was at first rather disagreeable to him: he was obliged to wear shoes and stockings, and they hurt his feet.
Besides this, when he waited at dinner he made such a noise in walking that his fellow-servants laughed at him.
He told his sister Mary of his distress, and she made for him, after many trials, a pair of cloth shoes, with soles of platted hemp.
It was soon remarked by the men-servants that he had left off clumping so heavily, and it was observed by the maids that he never dirtied the stairs or passages with his shoes.
When he was praised for these things, he said it was his sister Mary who should be thanked, and not he; and he showed the shoes which she had made for him.
Isabella's maid bespoke a pair immediately, and sent Mary a piece of pretty calico for the outside.
The last-maker made a last for her, and over this Mary sewed the calico vamps tight.
Her brother advised her to try platted packthread instead of hemp for the soles; and she found that this looked more neat than the hemp soles, and was likely to last longer.
She platted the packthread together in strands of about half an inch thick, and these were served firmly together at the bottom of the shoe.
When they were finished they fitted well, and the maid showed them to her mistress.
Isabella and Caroline were so well pleased with Mary's ingenuity and kindness to her brother, that they bespoke from her two dozen of these shoes, and gave her three yards of coloured fustian to make them of, and galloon for the binding.
When the shoes were completed, Isabella and Caroline disposed of them for her amongst their acquaintance, and got three shillings a pair for them.
The young ladies, as soon as they had collected the money, walked to the old castle, where they found everything neat and clean as usual.
They had great pleasure in giving to this industrious girl the reward of her ingenuity, which she received with some surprise and more gratitude.
They advised her to continue the shoemaking trade, as they found the shoes were liked, and they knew that they could have a sale for them at the Repository in Dublin.
Mary, encouraged by these kind friends, went on with her little manufacture with increased activity.
Peggy and Anne platted the packthread, and basted the vamps and linings together ready for her.
Edmund was allowed to come home for an hour every morning, provided he was back again before eight o'clock.
It was summer time, and he got up early, because he liked to go home to see his sisters, and he took his share in the manufactory.
It was his business to hammer the soles flat: and as soon as he came home every morning he performed his task with so much cheerfulness and sang so merrily at his work, that the hour of his arrival was always an hour of joy to the family.
Mary had presently employment enough upon her hands.
Orders came to her for shoes from many families in the neighbourhood, and she could not get them finished fast enough.
She, however, in the midst of her hurry, found time to make a very pretty pair, with neat roses, as a present for her schoolmistress, who, now that she saw her pupil in a good way of business, consented to receive the amount of her old debt.
Several of the children who went to her school were delighted with the sight of Mary's present, and went to the little manufactory at Rossmore Castle, to find out how these shoes were made.
Some went from curiosity, others from idleness; but when they saw how happy the little shoemakers seemed whilst busy at work, they longed to take some share in what was going forward.
One begged Mary to let her plat some packthread for the soles; another helped Peggy and Anne to baste in the linings; and all who could get employment were pleased, for the idle ones were shoved out of the way.
It became a custom with the children of the village to resort to the old castle at their play hours; and it was surprising to see how much was done by ten or twelve of them, each doing but a little at a time.
One morning Edmund and the little manufacturers were assembled very early, and they were busy at their work, all sitting round the meal chest, which served them for a table.
My hands must be washed before I can do anything.
They were in a sort of outer court of the castle, next to the room in which all their companions were at work, and they ran precipitately into the room, exclaiming, " Did you hear that noise?
As she finished speaking, another and a louder noise, and the walls round about them shook.
The children turned pale and stood motionless; but Edmund threw down his hammer, and ran out to see what was the matter.
Mary followed him, and they saw that a great chimney of the old ruins at the farthest side of the castle had fallen down, and this was the cause of the prodigious noise.
The part of the castle in which they lived seemed, as Edmund said, to be perfectly safe; but the children of the village were terrified, and thinking that the whole would come tumbling down directly, they ran to their homes as fast as they could.
The mason came, and gave it as his opinion that the rooms they inhabited might last through the winter but that no part of the ruins could stand another year.
Without losing any time, she went to the village that was at the end of the avenue leading to the vicarage, for she wished to get a lodging in this village because it was so near to her brother, and to the ladies who had been so kind to her.
Three guineas a year she thought was the highest rent for which she could venture to engage.
Besides, she heard that several proposals had been made to Mr. Harvey for this house, and she knew that Mr. Hopkins, the agent, was not her friend; therefore she despaired of getting it.
There was no other to be had in this village.
Her brother was still more vexed than she was, that she could not find a place near him.
None could be found but a woman, who was a great scold, and a man who was famous for going to law about every trifle with his neighbours.
Mary did not choose to have anything to do with these people.
She did not like to speak either to Miss Isabella or Caroline about it, because she was not of an encroaching temper; and when they had done so much for her, she would have been ashamed to beg for more.
She returned home to the old castle, mortified that she had no good news to tell Anne and Peggy, who she knew expected to hear that she had found a nice house for them in the village near their brother.
We cannot lift the stone from off her, it is so heavy.
Betsy [ one of the neighbour's girls ] says she remembers, when she came to us to work early this morning, she saw the goat rubbing itself, and butting with its horns against that old tottering chimney.
The goat, who had long been the favourite of Mary and her sisters, was lamented by them all.
When Edmund came, he helped them to move the great stone from off the poor animal, who was crushed so as to be a terrible sight.
As they were moving away this stone in order to bury the goat, Anne found an odd-looking piece of money, which seemed neither like a halfpenny, nor a shilling, nor a guinea.
On examining these coins, Edmund thought that several of them looked like gold, and the girls exclaimed with great joy --" Oh, Mary!
this is come to us just in right time-now you can pay for the slated house.
Never was anything so lucky!
But Mary, though nothing could have pleased her better than to have been able to pay for the house, observed that they could not honestly touch any of this treasure, as it belonged to the owner of the castle.
Edmund agreed with her, that they ought to carry it all immediately to Mr. Hopkins, the agent.
Peggy and Anne were convinced by what Mary said, and they begged to go along with her and their brother, to take the coins to Mr. Hopkins.
On their way they stopped at the vicarage, to show the treasure to Mr. Gilbert, who took it to the young ladies, Isabella and Caroline, and told them how it had been found.
It is not only by their superior riches, but it is yet more by their superior knowledge, that persons in the higher rank of life may assist those in a lower condition.
Isabella, who had some knowledge of chemistry, discovered, by touching the coins with nitric acid, that several of them were of gold, and consequently of great value.
Caroline also found out that many of the coins were very valuable as curiosities.
They also begged that their father, who was well acquainted with Mr. Harvey, the gentleman to whom Rossmore Castle belonged, to write to him, and tell him how well these orphans had behaved about the treasure which they had found.
The value of the coins was estimated at about thirty or forty guineas.
A few days after the fall of the chimney at Rossmore Castle, as Mary and her sisters were sitting at their work, there came hobbling in an old woman, leaning on a crab stick, that seemed to have been newly cut.
She had a broken tobacco-pipe in her mouth; her head was wrapped up in two large red and blue handkerchiefs, with their crooked corners hanging far down over the back of her neck, no shoes on her broad feet, nor stockings on her many-coloured legs.
Her petticoat was jagged at the bottom, and the skirt of her gown turned up over her shoulders, to serve instead of a cloak, which she had sold for whisky.
This old woman was well known amongst the country people by the name of Goody Grope:* because she had, for many years, been in the habit of groping in old castles, and in moats,** and at the bottom of a round tower *** in the neighbourhood, in search of treasure.
This prophecy made a deep impression upon her.
Collyogh is the Irish appellation of an old woman: but as Collyogh might sound strangely to English ears, we have translated it by the word Goody.
Year after year St. Patrick's day came about, without her ever finding a farthing by all her groping; and as she was always idle, she grew poorer and poorer.
Besides, to comfort herself for her disappointments, and to give her spirits for fresh searches, she took to drinking.
She sold all she had by degrees; but still she fancied that the lucky day would come sooner or later, THAT WOULD PAY FOR ALL.
give me a potato and a sup of something, for the love o'mercy; for not a bit have I had all day, except half a glass of whisky and a halfpenny worth of tobacco!
Mary immediately set before her some milk, and picked a good potato out of the bowl for her.
She was sorry to see such an old woman in such a wretched condition.
Mary told her that she had carried it to Mr. Hopkins, the agent.
But it is idle talking of what's done-that's past; but I'll try my luck in this here castle before next St. Patrick's day comes about.
I was told it was more than twenty miles from our bog or I would have been here long ago; but better late than never.
Mary was much alarmed, and not without reason, at this speech; for she knew that if Goody Grope once set to work at the foundation of the old castle of Rossmore, she would soon bring it all down.
It was in vain to talk to Goody Grope of the danger of burying herself under the ruins, or of the improbability of her meeting with another pot of gold coins.
said Mary; for she saw that she must either get into a quarrel or give up her habitation, or comply with the conditions of this provoking old woman.
Half a crown, Goody Grope said, was the least she could be content to take.
Mary did not yet know how much she was to suffer on account of this unfortunate pot of gold coins.
Mr. Hopkins, the agent, imagined that no one knew of the discovery of this treasure but himself and these poor children; so, not being as honest as they were, he resolved to keep it for his own use.
He was surprised some weeks afterwards to receive a letter from his employer, Mr. Harvey, demanding from him the coins which had been discovered at Rossmore Castle.
So he sent over the silver coins and others of little value, and apologized for his not having mentioned them before, by saying that he considered them as mere rubbish.
Mr. Harvey, in reply, observed that he could not consider as rubbish the gold coins which were amongst them when they were discovered; and he inquired why these gold coins, and those of the reign of Henry the Seventh, were not now sent to him.
Mr. Hopkins denied that he had ever received any such; but he was thunderstruck when Mr. Harvey, in reply to this falsehood, sent him a list of the coins which the orphans had deposited with him, and exact drawings of those that were missing.
He informed him that this list and these drawings came from two ladies who had seen the coins in question.
Mr. Hopkins thought that he had no means of escape but by boldly persisting in falsehood.
The orphans were shocked and astonished when they heard, from Isabella and Caroline, the charge that was made against them.
They looked at one another in silence for some moments.
Then Peggy exclaimed --" Sure!
Mr. Hopkins has forgotten himself strangely.
Does not he remember Edmund's counting the things to him upon the great table in his hall, and we all standing by!
I remember it as well as if it was this instant.
but just then there came in some tenants to pay their rent, and he pushed us out, and twitched from my hand the piece of gold which I had taken up to show him the bright spot which Miss Isabella had cleaned by the stuff that she had poured on it?
I believe he was afraid I should steal it; he twitched it from my hand in such a hurry.
Do, Edmund; do, Mary-let us go to him, and put him in mind of all this.
Mary, don't be cast down-we have no need to be cast down-we are honest.
Let him say and do what he will, he can't hurt our good name.
Edmund was mistaken, alas!
and Mary had but too much reason for her fears.
The affair was a great deal talked of; and the agent spared no pains to have the story told his own way.
The buzz of scandal went on for some time without reaching their ears, because they lived very retiredly.
But one day, when Mary went to sell some stockings of Peggy's knitting at the neighbouring fair, the man to whom she sold them bid her write her name on the back of a note, and exclaimed, on seeing it --" Ho!
mistress; I'd not have had any dealings with you, had I known your name sooner.
Where's the gold that you found at Rossmore Castle?
It was in vain that Mary related the fact.
She saw that she gained no belief, as her character was not known to this man, or to any of those who were present.
She left the fair as soon as she could; and though she struggled against it, she felt very melancholy.
Still she exerted herself every day at her little manufacture; and she endeavoured to console herself by reflecting that she had two friends left who would not give up her character, and who continued steadily to protect her and her sisters.
Isabella and Caroline everywhere asserted their belief in the integrity of the orphans, but to prove it was in this instance out of their power.
Mr. Hopkins, the agent, and his friends, constantly repeated that the gold coins were taken away in coming from their house to his; and these ladies were blamed by many people for continuing to countenance those that were, with great reason, suspected to be thieves.
The orphans were in a worse condition than ever when the winter came on, and their benefactresses left the country to spend some months in Dublin.
The old castle, it was true, was likely to last through the winter, as the mason said; but though the want of a comfortable house to live in was, a little while ago, the uppermost thing in Mary's thoughts, now it was not so.
One night as Mary was going to bed, she heard someone knocking hard at the door.
let us in," cried a voice, which she knew to be the voice of Betsy Green, the postmaster's daughter, who lived in the village near them.
She let Betsy in, and asked what she could want at such a time of night.
Here's a letter just come by post for you, and I stepped over to you with it; because I guessed you'd be glad to have it, seeing it is your brother's handwriting.
Peggy and Anne were soon roused, when they heard that there was a letter from Edmund.
It was by one of his rush candles that Mary read it; and the letter was as follows:--
joy- I always said the truth would come out at last; and that he could not take our good name from us.
As for they that are not honest, it is not for them to expect to be happy, at Christmas, or any other time.
You shall know all when we meet.
So, till then, fare ye well, dear Mary, Nancy, and little Peg.
To comprehend why Edmund is joyful, our readers must be informed of certain things which happened after Isabella and Caroline went to Dublin.
One morning they went with their father and mother to see the magnificent library of a nobleman, who took generous and polite pleasure in thus sharing the advantages of his wealth and station with all who had any pretensions to science or literature.
Knowing that the gentleman who was now come to see his library was skilled in antiquities, the nobleman opened a drawer of medals, to ask his opinion concerning the age of some coins, which he had lately purchased at a high price.
They were the very same which the orphans had found at Rossmore Castle.
Isabella and Caroline knew them again instantly; and as the cross which Isabella had made on each of them was still visible through a magnifying glass, there could be no possibility of doubt.
The nobleman, who was much interested both by the story of these orphans, and the manner in which it was told to him, sent immediately for the person from whom he had purchased the coins.
At first he refused to tell them from whom he got them, because he had bought them, he said, under a promise of secrecy.
Being further pressed, he acknowledged that it was made a condition in his bargain that he should not sell them to anyone in Ireland, but that he had been tempted by the high price the present noble possessor had offered.
Now, Mr. Hopkins, the agent, was at this time in Dublin, and Caroline's father posted the Jew, the next day, in the back-parlour of a banker's house, with whom Mr. Hopkins had, on this day, appointed to settle some accounts.
Mr. Hopkins came-the Jew knew him-swore that he was the man who had sold the coins to him; and thus the guilt of the agent and the innocence of the orphans were completely proved.
A full account of all that happened was sent to England to Mr. Harvey, their landlord, and a few posts afterwards there came a letter from him, containing a dismissal of the dishonest agent, and a reward for the honest and industrious orphans.
Mr. Harvey desired that Mary and her sisters might have the slated house, rent free, from this time forward, under the care of ladies Isabella and Caroline, as long as Mary or her sisters should carry on in it any useful business.
This was the joyful news which Edmund had to tell his sisters.
All the neighbours shared in their joy, and the day of their removal from the ruins of Rossmore Castle to their new house was the happiest of the Christmas holidays.
They were not envied for their prosperity; because everybody saw that it was the reward of their good conduct; everybody except Goody Grope.
She exclaimed, as she wrung her hands with violent expressions of sorrow --" Bad luck to me!
bad luck to me- Why didn't I go sooner to that there castle?
It is all luck, all luck in this world; but I never had no luck.
interrupted Goody Grope; " don't be prating; don't I know as well as you do, that they found a pot of gold, BY GOOD LUCK?
and is not that the cause why they are going to live in a slated house now?
Edmund showed it to me, and will show it to anyone that wants to see.
This house was given to them'AS A REWARD FOR THEIR HONESTY.'
In the pleasant valley of Ashton there lived an elderly woman of the name of Preston.
She had a small neat cottage, and there was not a weed to be seen in her garden.
It was upon her garden that she chiefly depended for support; it consisted of strawberry beds, and one small border for flowers.
The pinks and roses she tied up in nice nosegays, and sent either to Clifton or Bristol to be sold.
As to her strawberries, she did not send them to market, because it was the custom for numbers of people to come from Clifton, in the summer time, to eat strawberries and cream at the gardens in Ashton.
Now, the widow Preston was so obliging, active and good-humoured, that everyone who came to see her was pleased.
She lived happily in this manner for several years; but, alas!
one autumn she fell sick, and, during her illness, everything went wrong; her garden was neglected, her cow died, and all the money which she had saved was spent in paying for medicines.
The winter passed away, while she was so weak that she could earn but little by her work; and when the summer came, her rent was called for, and the rent was not ready in her little purse as usual.
She begged a few months'delay, and they were granted to her; but at the end of that time there was no resource but to sell her horse Lightfoot.
Now Lightfoot, though perhaps he had seen his best days, was a very great favourite.
In his youth he had always carried the dame to the market behind her husband; and it was now her little son Jem's turn to ride him.
It was Jem's business to feed Lightfoot, and to take care of him-a charge which he never neglected, for, besides being a very good natured, he was a very industrious boy.
no wonder, you've been brave hard at work-Eh?
I wish it was not so dark, mother, that you might just step out and see the great bed I've dug; I know you'd say it was no bad day's work-and oh, mother!
I've good news: Farmer Truck will give us the giant strawberries, and I'm to go for'em tomorrow morning, and I'll be back afore breakfast.
how he talks- Four mile there, and four mile back again, afore breakfast.
cried Jem, swallowing the last mouthful hastily, as if he thought he had been too long at supper --" and now for the great needle; I must see and mend Lightfoot's bridle afore I go to bed.
To work he set, by the light of the fire, and the dame having once more stirred it, began again with " Jem, dear, does he go lame at all now?
Oh, la, no, not he-never was so well of his lameness in all his life.
He's grown quite young again, I think, and then he's so fat he can hardly wag.
We must see, Jem, and keep him fat.
cried Jem, and let the bridle fall from his hand; " and WILL mother sell Lightfoot?
Why, must not I pay my debts honestly; and must not I pay my rent, and was not it called for long and long ago; and have not I had time; and did not I promise to pay it for certain Monday fortnight, and am not I two guineas short; and where am I to get two guineas?
So what signifies talking, child?
said the widow, leaning her head upon her arm.
Jem was silent for a few minutes --" Two guineas, that's a great, great deal.
If I worked, and worked, and worked ever so hard, I could no ways earn two guineas AFORE Monday fortnight-could I, mother?
Jem turned away struggling to hide his tears, and went to bed without saying a word more.
But he knew that crying would do no good; so he presently wiped his eyes, and lay awake, considering what he could possibly do to save the horse.
and we might make it all up in time; for a penny a day might come to two guineas in time.
But how to get the first penny was the question.
Early in the morning he wakened full of this scheme, jumped up, dressed himself, and, having given one look at poor Lightfoot in his stable, set off to Clifton in search of the old woman, to inquire where she found her sparkling stones.
But it was too early in the morning, the old woman was not at her seat; so he turned back again, disappointed.
He did not waste his time waiting for her, but saddled and bridled Lightfoot, and went to Farmer Truck's for the giant strawberries.
A great part of the morning was spent in putting them into the ground; and, as soon as that was finished, he set out again in quest of the old woman, whom, to his great joy, he spied sitting at her corner of the street with her board before her.
But this old woman was deaf and cross; and when at last Jem made her hear his questions, he could get no answer from her, but that she found the fossils where he would never find any more.
Jem was not, however, a boy to be easily discouraged; he went to the rocks, and walked slowly along, looking at all the stones as he passed.
Presently he came to a place where a number of men were at work loosening some large rocks, and one amongst the workmen was stooping down looking for something very eagerly; Jem ran up, and asked if he could help him.
Jem, encouraged by the tone of voice in which the man spoke this, ventured to ask him the same questions which he had asked the old woman.
He neither worked nor played, but sauntered or lounged about restless and yawning.
His father was an ale-house keeper, and being generally drunk, could take no care of his son; so that Lazy Lawrence grew every day worse and worse.
However, some of the neighbours said that he was a good natured, poor fellow enough, and would never do anyone harm but himself; whilst others, who were wiser, often shook their heads, and told him that idleness was the root of all evil.
cried Jem to him, when he saw him lying upon the grass; " what, are you asleep?
I would not be you for the world, to have so much to do always.
They then parted, for the workman just then called Jem to follow him.
He took him home to his own house, and showed him a parcel of fossils, which he had gathered, he said, on purpose to sell, but had never had time enough to sell them.
Now, however, he set about the task; and having picked out those which he judged to be the best, he put them in a small basket, and gave them to Jem to sell, upon condition that he should bring him half of what he got.
Jem, pleased to be employed, was ready to agree to what the man proposed, provided his mother had no objection.
When he went home to dinner, he told his mother his scheme, and she smiled, and said he might do as he pleased; for she was not afraid of his being from home.
Accordingly Jem that evening took his stand, with his little basket, upon the bank of the river, just at the place where people land from a ferry-boat, and the walk turns to the wells, and numbers of people perpetually pass to drink the waters.
He chose his place well, and waited nearly all the evening, offering his fossils with great assiduity to every passenger; but not one person bought any.
cried some sailors, who had just rowed a boat to land, " bear a hand here, will you, my little fellow, and carry these parcels for us into yonder house?
Come along, my lad; we can but try.
The lady lived but a very little way off, so that they were soon at her house.
I thought I saw him here just now.
She smiled, and, pleased with his activity and simplicity, began to ask him several questions; such as who he was, where he lived, what employment he had, and how much a day he earned by gathering fossils.
So, emptying all the fossils out of his basket, she put half a crown into it.
Jem's eyes sparkled with joy.
THAT, instead of encouraging you to be industrious, would teach you to be idle.
Jem did not quite understand what she meant by this, but answered, " I'm sure I don't wish to be idle; what I want is to earn something every day, if I know how; I'm sure I don't wish to be idle.
If you knew all, you'd know I did not.
To be sure, as mammy says, I have no chance, such a little fellow as I am, of earning two guineas afore Monday fortnight.
said the lady; " you know there is a great deal of difference between picking up a few stones, and working steadily every day, and all day long.
Come here, to-morrow morning, and my gardener will set you to weed the shrubberies, and I will pay you sixpence a day.
Remember, you must be at the gates by six o'clock.
Jem bowed, thanked her, and went away.
He was just come home from work, and was surprised when Jem showed him the half-crown, saying, " Look what I got for the stones; you are to have half, you know.
I expected but a shilling at the most, and the half of that is but sixpence, and that I'll take.
Wife, give the lad two shillings, and take this half-crown.
So the wife opened an old glove, and took out two shillings; and the man, as she opened the glove, put in his fingers, and took out a little silver penny.
Four days he worked " every day and all day long "; and every evening the lady, when she came out to walk in her gardens, looked at his work.
At last she said to her gardener, " This little boy works very hard.
why, about this much, ma'am," said the gardener, marking off a piece of the border with his spade.
The gardener will mark it off for you; and when you've done, the rest of the day you may do what you please.
Jem was extremely glad of this; and the next day he had finished his task by four o'clock; so that he had all the rest of the evening to himself.
The rest were playing at cricket.
Jem joined them, and was the merriest and most active amongst them; till, at last, when quite out of breath with running, he was obliged to give up to rest himself, and sat down upon the stile, close to the gate on which Lazy Lawrence was swinging.
take a good race-one, two, three, and away-and you'll find yourself as well as ever.
Come, run-one, two, three, and away.
Come, now, I'm quite fresh again, will you have one game at ball?
a penny, twopence, threepence, fourpence-there's eightpence in all; would not you be happy if you had EIGHTPENCE?
I'm sure you only say that because you envy me.
You don't know what it is to have eightpence.
You never had more than twopence or threepence at a time in all your life.
I have-let me-see-stones, two shillings; then five days'work-that's five sixpences, that's two shillings and sixpence; in all, makes four shillings and sixpence; and my silver penny, is four and sevenpence-four and sevenpence!
said Lawrence, roused so as absolutely to stand upright, " four and sevenpence, have you?
Show it me, and then I'll believe you.
said Lawrence, following half-running, half-hobbling, till he came to the stable, where Jem showed him his treasure.
to be sure I did; I earned it all.
well, I've a great mind to work; but then it's such hot weather, besides, grandmother says I'm not strong enough yet for hard work; and besides, I know how to coax daddy out of money when I want it, so I need not work.
But four and sevenpence; let's see, what will you do with it all?
First, I'd buy pocketfuls of gingerbread; then I'd buy ever so many apples and nuts.
I'd buy nuts enough to last me from this time to Christmas, and I'd make little Newton crack'em for me, for that's the worst of nuts; there's the trouble of cracking'em.
Come now, let's go back and playtheir game's up, I daresay.
Lawrence went back with him, full of curiosity, and out of humour with himself and his eightpence.
The next day, as usual, Jem jumped up before six o'clock and went to his work, whilst Lazy Lawrence sauntered about without knowing what to do with himself.
When he got home he heard his father talking very loud, and at first he thought he was drunk; but when he opened the kitchen door, he saw that he was not drunk, but angry.
cried he, turning suddenly upon Lawrence, and gave him such a violent box on the ear as made the light flash from his eyes; " you lazy dog!
See what you've done for me-look- look, look, I say!
Lawrence looked as soon as he came to the use of his senses, and with fear, amazement and remorse, beheld at least a dozen bottles burst, and the fine Worcestershire cider streaming over the floor.
answer me, you lazy rascal; did not I?
cried his father, with renewed anger, as another bottle burst at the moment.
why don't you move, I say?
No, no," catching hold of him, " I believe you can't move; but I'll make you.
And he shook him till Lawrence was so giddy he could not stand.
What had you to do all day long that you could not carry my cider, my Worcestershire cider, to the cellar when I bid you?
But go, you'll never be good for anything; you are such a lazy rascal-get out of my sight!
So saying, he pushed him out of the house door, and Lawrence sneaked off, seeing that this was no time to make his petition for halfpence.
The next day he saw the nuts again, and wishing for them more than ever, he went home, in hopes that his father, as he said to himself, would be in a better humour.
But the cider was still fresh in his recollection; and the moment Lawrence began to whisper the word " halfpenny " in his ear, his father swore, with a loud oath, " I will not give you a halfpenny, no, not a farthing, for a month to come.
If you want money, go work for it; I've had enough of your laziness-go work!
With this he proceeded to the fruit woman's stall.
She was busy weighing out some plums, so he was obliged to wait; and whilst he was waiting he heard some people near him talking and laughing very loud.
The fruit woman's stall was at the gate of an inn yard; and peeping through the gate in this yard, Lawrence saw a postilion and a stable boy, about his own size, playing at pitch farthing.
He stood by watching them for a few minutes.
added he, jingling the halfpence in his waistcoat pocket.
Lawrence was moved at the sound, and said to himself, " If _I_ begin with one halfpenny I may end, like him, with having twopence; and it is easier to play at pitch farthing than to work.
So he stepped forward, presenting his halfpenny, offering to toss up with the stable boy, who, after looking him full in the face, accepted the proposal, and threw his halfpenny into the air.
He seized the penny, surprised at his own success, and would have gone instantly to have laid it out in nuts; but the stable boy stopped him, and tempted him to throw again.
This time Lawrence lost; he threw again and won; and so he went on, sometimes losing, but most frequently winning, till half the morning was lost.
At last, however, finding himself the master of three halfpence, said he would play no more.
The stable boy, grumbling, swore he would have his revenge another time, and Lawrence went and bought his nuts.
Satisfied with this resolution, he sat down to crack his nuts at his leisure, upon the horse block in the inn yard.
Here, whilst he ate, he overheard the conversation of the stable boys and postilions.
At first their shocking oaths and loud wrangling frightened and shocked him; for Lawrence, though lazy, had not yet learned to be a wicked boy.
But, by degrees, he was accustomed to the swearing and quarrelling, and took a delight and interest in their disputes and battles.
As this was an amusement which he could enjoy without any sort of exertion, he soon grew so fond of it, that every day he returned to the stable yard, and the horse block became his constant seat.
Here he found some relief from the insupportable fatigue of doing nothing, and here, hour after hour, with his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands, he sat, the spectator of wickedness.
Gaming, cheating and lying soon became familiar to him; and, to complete his ruin, he formed a sudden and close intimacy with the stable boy (a very bad boy) with whom he had first begun to game.
The consequences of this intimacy we shall presently see.
But it is now time to inquire what little Jem had been doing all this while.
One day, after Jem had finished his task, the gardener asked him to stay a little while, to help him to carry some geranium pots into the hall.
Jem, always active and obliging, readily stayed from play, and was carrying in a heavy flower pot, when his mistress crossed the hall.
said she, " you are making here-why don't you wipe your shoes upon the mat?
Jem turned to look for the mat, but he saw none.
I should not care what sort of mats they were, so that one could wipe one's feet on them.
Jem, as he was sweeping away the litter, when he heard these last words, said to himself, " Perhaps I could make a mat.
And all the way home, as he trudged along whistling, he was thinking over a scheme for making mats, which, however bold it may appear, he did not despair of executing, with patience and industry.
Many were the difficulties which his " prophetic eye " foresaw; but he felt within himself that spirit which spurs men on to great enterprises, and makes them " trample on impossibilities.
Lightfoot carried him swiftly to the common, and there Jem gathered as much of the heath as he thought he should want.
what pains did it cost him, before he could make anything like a mat!
Twenty times he was ready to throw aside the heath, and give up his project, from impatience of repeated disappointments.
Nothing TRULY GREAT can be accomplished without toil and time.
Two hours he worked before he went to bed.
All his play hours the next day he spent at his mat; which, in all, made five hours of fruitless attempts.
The sixth, however, repaid him for the labours of the other five.
He conquered his grand difficulty of fastening the heath substantially together, and at length completely finished a mat, which far surpassed his most sanguine expectations.
He was extremely happy-sang, danced round it-whistled-looked at it again and again, and could hardly leave off looking at it when it was time to go to bed.
He laid it by his bedside, that he might see it the moment he awoke in the morning.
And now came the grand pleasure of carrying it to his mistress.
She looked fully as much surprised as he expected, when she saw it, and when she heard who made it.
After having duly admired it, she asked how much he expected for his mat.
I made it in my play hours, I was very happy in making it; and I'm very glad, too, that you like it; and if you please to keep it, ma'am, that's all.
Make as many more such mats as you can, and I will take care and dispose of them for you.
The next day he went to work to make more mats, and he soon learned to make them so well and quickly, that he was surprised at his own success.
In every one he made he found less difficulty, so that, instead of making two, he could soon make four in a day.
In a fortnight he made eighteen.
It was Saturday night when he finished, and he carried, at three journeys, his eighteen mats to his mistress'house; piled them all up in the hall, and stood with his hat off, with a look of proud humility, beside the pile, waiting for his mistress'appearance.
Presently a folding-door, at one end of the hall, opened, and he saw his mistress, with a great many gentlemen and ladies, rising from several tables.
there is my little boy and his mats," cried the lady; and, followed by all the rest of the company, she came into the hall.
Jem modestly retired whilst they looked at his mats; but in a minute or two his mistress beckoned to him, and when he came into the middle of the circle, he saw that his pile of mats had disappeared.
said the lady, " well, take up your hat and go home then, for you see that it is getting late, and you know Lightfoot will wonder what's become of you.
Jem turned round to take up his hat, which he had left on the floor.
But how his countenance changed!
the hat was heavy with shillings.
Everyone who had taken a mat had put in two shillings; so that for the eighteen mats he had got thirty-six shillings.
I must add, I believe, one other sixpence to make out your two guineas.
exclaimed Jem, now quite conquering his bashfulness, for at the moment he forgot where he was, and saw nobody that was by.
cried he, clapping his hands together-" O, Lightfoot!
Then, recollecting himself, he saw his mistress, whom he now looked up to quite as a friend.
said he, scarcely daring to glance his eyes round upon the company; " will YOU thank'em, for you know I don't know how to thank'em RIGHTLY.
Everybody thought, however, that they had been thanked RIGHTLY.
He now went home, but felt it a great restraint to wait till to-morrow evening before he told his mother.
To console himself he flew to the stable:--" Lightfoot, you're not to be sold on Monday, poor fellow!
said he, patting him, and then could not refrain from counting out his money.
Whilst he was intent upon this, Jem was startled by a noise at the door: somebody was trying to pull up the latch.
It opened, and there came in Lazy Lawrence, with a boy in a red jacket, who had a cock under his arm.
They started when they got into the middle of the stable, and when they saw Jem, who had been at first hidden by the horse.
See, I've a fine cock here, and Lawrence told me you were a great friend of his; so I came.
Lawrence now attempted to say something in praise of the pleasures of cock-fighting and in recommendation of his new companion.
But Jem looked at the stable-boy with dislike, and a sort of dread.
Then turning his eyes upon the cock with a look of compassion, said, in a low voice, to Lawrence, " Shall you like to stand by and see its eyes pecked out?
Come, you'll go, won't you?
But how came you to talk of four and sevenpence.
I saw in the manger a hat full of silver.
You had liked to have blown us all up.
but you must not talk of shame now you are in for it, and I sha'n't let you off; you owe us half a crown, recollect, and I must be paid to-night, so see and get the money somehow or other.
After a considerable pause he added, " I answer for it he'd never miss half a crown out of all that silver.
Besides, what signifies talking, you can't go to the cock-fight, or the fair either, if you don't; and I tell ye we don't mean to steal it; we'll pay it by Monday night.
Lawrence made no reply, and they parted without his coming to any determination.
Here let us pause in our story.
We are almost afraid to go on.
The rest is very shocking.
Our little readers will shudder as they read.
But it is better that they should know the truth, and see what the idle boy came to at last.
In the dead of the night, Lawrence heard somebody tap at his window.
He knew well who it was, for this was the signal agreed upon between him and his wicked companion.
He trembled at the thoughts of what he was about to do, and lay quite still, with his head under the bedclothes, till he heard the second tap.
Then he got up, dressed himself, and opened his window.
It was almost even with the ground.
His companion said to him, in a hollow voice, " Are you ready?
He made no answer, but got out of the window and followed.
When he got to the stable a black cloud was just passing over the moon, and it was quite dark.
whispered Lawrence, groping about, " where are you?
Lawrence stretched out his hand.
said the wicked boy, as Lawrence laid hold of him; " how cold it feels.
Make haste, I hear a noise," said the stable boy, who watched at the door.
He brought Jem's broken flower pot, with all the money in it, to the door.
The black cloud had now passed over the moon, and the light shone full upon them.
said the stable boy, snatching the flower-pot out of Lawrence's trembling hands, and pulled him away from the door.
cried Lawrence, " you won't take all.
You said you'd only take half a crown, and pay it back on Monday.
You said you'd only take half a crown!
Lawrence's blood ran cold in his veins, and he felt as if all his hair stood on end.
His accomplice carried off the money, and Lawrence crept, with all the horrors of guilt upon him, to his restless bed.
He thought the morning would never come; but when it was day, when he heard the birds sing, and saw everything look cheerful as usual, he felt still more miserable.
It was Sunday morning, and the bell rang for church.
All the children of the village, dressed in their Sunday clothes, innocent and gay, and little Jem, the best and gayest amongst them, went flocking by his door to church.
said Lawrence, starting; " why do you say that I look black?
replied Lawrence, not knowing what he said, and turned abruptly away, for he dared not stand another look of Jem's; conscious that guilt was written in his face, he shunned every eye.
He would now have given the world to have thrown off the load of guilt which lay upon his mind.
He longed to follow Jem, to fall upon his knees and confess all.
It was agreed that as soon as the dusk of the evening came on, they should go together into a certain lonely field, and there divide their booty.
said his mother, when he came in with the strawberries, and was jumping about the room playfully.
Have it in mind that to-morrow's fair day, and Lightfoot must go.
I bid Farmer Truck call for him to-night.
He said he'd take him along with his own, and he'll be here just now-and then I know how it will be with you, Jem!
cried Jem, swallowing his secret with great difficulty, and then tumbling head over heels four times running.
A carriage passed the window, and stopped at the door.
Jem ran out; it was his mistress.
She came in smiling, and soon made the old woman smile, too, by praising the neatness of everything in the house.
We shall pass over, however important as they were deemed at the time, the praises of the strawberries, and of " my grandmother's china plate.
Another knock was heard at the door.
No; it was Farmer Truck come for Lightfoot.
The old woman's countenance fell.
My boy's a fool, madam, about that there horse.
Trying to laugh, she added, " I knew how Lightfoot and he would be loath enough to part.
He won't bring him out till the last minute; so do sit ye down, neighbour.
The farmer had scarcely sat down when Jem, with a pale, wild countenance came back.
said his mother, looking at him quite frightened, whilst he tried to speak, but could not.
She went up to him, and then leaning his head against her, he cried, " It's gone- it's all gone!
and, bursting into tears, he sobbed as if his little heart would break.
I went to fetch'em to give you, mammy; but the broken flower-pot that I put them in, and all's gone- quite gone!
repeated he, checking his sobs.
His mother listened to him with the greatest surprise, whilst his mistress stood in silence, looking first at the old woman, and then at Jem with a penetrating eye, as if she suspected the truth of his story, and was afraid of becoming the dupe of her own compassion.
How came you not to give it to your mother to take care of?
said Jem, looking up, in the midst of his tears --" why, don't you remember you, your own self, bid me not tell her about it till you were by?
why don't you speak to the lady?
Still the lady, who had lived too long in the world to be without suspicion, maintained a cold manner, and determined to wait the event without interfering, saying only, that she hoped the money would be found, and advised Jem to have done crying.
And as he had the greatest command over himself, he actually did not shed another tear, not even when the farmer got up to go, saying, he could wait no longer.
Jem silently went to bring out Lightfoot.
The lady now took her seat, where she could see all that passed at the open parlour-window.
The old woman stood at the door, and several idle people of the village, who had gathered round the lady's carriage examining it, turned about to listen.
In a minute or two Jem appeared, with a steady countenance, leading Lightfoot and, when he came up, without saying a word, put the bridle into Farmer Truck's hand.
cried Jem, and threw his arm over Lightfoot's neck, hiding his own face as he leaned upon him.
At this instant a party of milk-women went by; and one of them, having set down her pail, came behind Jem, and gave him a pretty smart blow upon the back.
and you'll tell me just now," said she, half opening her hand, " that you forget who gave you this, and who charged you not to part with it, too.
Here she quite opened her large hand, and on the palm of it appeared Jem's silver penny.
exclaimed Jem, seizing it, " oh, where did you find it?
and have you-oh, tell me, have you got the rest of my money?
But now Jem's mistress called to her through the window, begging her to stop, and joining in his entreaties to know how she came by the silver penny.
You must know my Betty is sick, so I came with the milk myself, though it's not what I'm used to; for my Betty-you know my Betty?
said she, turning round to the old woman, " my Betty serves you, and she's a tight and stirring lassy, ma'am, I can assure --
continued the milk woman to the farmer.
The lad took no notice; but when he opened it, out it falls.
Still he takes no heed, but cuts the cord, as I said before, and through the gate they went, and out of sight in half a minute.
cried Jem, " I'll run after them.
Whilst they were gone in pursuit of the thieves, the lady, who was now thoroughly convinced of Jem's truth, desired her coachman would produce what she had ordered him to bring with him that evening.
Out of the boot of the carriage the coachman immediately produced a new saddle and bridle.
How Jem's eyes sparkled when the saddle was thrown upon Lightfoot's back!
Confused reports of Lightfoot's splendid accoutrements, of the pursuit of thieves, and of the fine and generous lady who was standing at Dame Preston's window, quickly spread through the village, and drew everybody from their houses.
They crowded round Jem to hear the story.
The children especially, who were fond of him, expressed the strongest indignation against the thieves.
Every eye was on the stretch; and now some, who had run down the lane, came back shouting, " Here they are!
The footman on horseback carried one boy before him; and the farmer, striding along, dragged another.
The latter had on a red jacket, which little Jem immediately recollected, and scarcely dared lift his eyes to look at the boy on horseback.
said he to himself, " it must be-yet surely it can't be Lawrence!
The footman rode on as fast as the people would let him.
The boy's hat was slouched, and his head hung down, so that nobody could see his face.
At this instant there was a disturbance in the crowd.
A man who was half drunk pushed his way forwards, swearing that nobody should stop him; that he had a right to see-and he WOULD see.
And so he did; for, forcing through all resistance, he staggered up to the footman just as he was lifting down the boy he had carried before him.
cried the drunken man, pushing up the boy's hat.
exclaimed the wretched father.
The shock sobered him at once, and he hid his face in his hands.
There was an awful silence.
Lawrence fell on his knees, and in a voice that could scarcely be heard made a full confession of all the circumstances of his guilt.
the bystanders exclaimed; " what could put such wickedness in your head?
While this was saying the farmer was emptying Lazy Lawrence's pockets; and when the money appeared, all his former companions in the village looked at each other with astonishment and terror.
Their parents grasped their little hands closer, and cried, " Thank God!
How often when he was little we used, as he lounged about, to tell him that idleness was the root of all evil.
As for the hardened wretch, his accomplice, everyone was impatient to have him sent to gaol.
He put on a bold, insolent countenance, till he heard Lawrence's confession; till the money was found upon him; and he heard the milk-woman declare that she would swear to the silver penny which he had dropped.
Then he turned pale, and betrayed the strongest signs of fear.
said Jem, springing forwards when Lawrence's hands were going to be tied, " let him go-won't you?can't you let him go?
His father stood by wringing his hands in an agony of despair.
Nothing more was said; for everybody felt the truth of the farmer's speech.
Lawrence was eventually sent to Bridewell for a month, and the stable-boy was sent for trial, convicted, and transported to Botany Bay.
During Lawrence's confinement, Jem often visited him, and carried him such little presents as he could afford to give; and Jem could afford to be GENEROUS, because he was INDUSTRIOUS.
Lawrence's heart was touched by his kindness, and his example struck him so forcibly that, when his confinement was ended, he resolved to set immediately to work; and, to the astonishment of all who knew him, soon became remarkable for industry.
He was found early and late at his work, established a new character, and for ever lost the name of " Lazy Lawrence.
Mr. Spencer, a very benevolent and sensible man, undertook the education of several poor children.
Among the rest was a boy of the name of Franklin, whom he had bred up from the time he was five years old.
Franklin had the misfortune to be the son of a man of infamous character; and for many years this was a disgrace and reproach to his child.
When any of the neighbours'children quarrelled with him, they used to tell him that he would turn out like his father.
But Mr. Spencer always assured him that he might make himself whatever he pleased; that by behaving well he would certainly, sooner or later, secure the esteem and love of all who knew him, even of those who had the strongest prejudice against him on his father's account.
When he was about thirteen years of age, Mr. Spencer one day sent for him into his closet; and as he was folding up a letter which he had been writing, said to him, with a very kind look, but in a graver tone than usual, " Franklin, you are going to leave me.
You will carry this letter to my sister, Mrs. Churchill, in Queen's Square.
Mrs. Churchill will make you a very good mistress, if you behave properly; and I have no doubt but you will.
He came back with the candle, and, with a stout heart, stood by whilst the letter was sealing; and, when his master put it into his hand, said, in a cheerful voice, " I hope you will let me see you again, sir, sometimes.
I have sometimes spoken harshly to you; but you will not meet with a more indulgent friend.
Franklin at this turned away with a full heart; and, after making two or three attempts to express his gratitude, left the room without being able to speak.
He got to Queen's Square about three o'clock.
The door was opened by a large, red-faced man, in a blue coat and scarlet waistcoat, to whom he felt afraid to give his message, lest he should not be a servant.
The man having examined the direction, seal, and edges of the letter, carried it upstairs, and in a few minutes returned, and ordered Franklin to rub his shoes well and follow him.
He was then shown into a handsome room, where he found his mistress-an elderly lady.
She asked him a few questions, examining him attentively as she spoke; and her severe eye at first, and her gracious smile afterwards, made him feel that she was a person to be both loved and feared.
The housekeeper, when she first came in, appeared with a smiling countenance; but the moment she cast her eyes on Franklin, it changed to a look of surprise and suspicion.
Her mistress recommended him to her protection, saying, " Pomfret, I hope you will keep this boy under your own eye.
And she received him with a cold " Very well, ma'am," which plainly showed that she was not disposed to like him.
In fact, Mrs. Pomfret was a woman so fond of power, and so jealous of favour, that she would have quarrelled with an angel who had got so near her mistress without her introduction.
She smothered her displeasure, however, till night; when, as she attended her mistress'toilette, she could not refrain from expressing her sentiments.
She began cautiously: " Ma'am, is not this the boy Mr. Spencer was talking of one day-that has been brought up by the VILLAINTROPIC SOCIETY, I think they call it?
They say all those children are taken from the very lowest DRUGS and REFUGES of the town, and surely they are like enough, ma'am, to take after their own fathers and mothers.
This little boy, to be sure, was unfortunate in his father, but he has had an excellent education.
to be sure, ma'am, I know.
I don't say but what edication is a great thing.
he would be forced to starve or steal, if everybody had such prejudices.
Pomfret, who really was a good woman, was softened at this idea, and said, " God forbid he should starve or steal, and God forbid I should say anything PREJUDICIARY of the boy; for there may be no harm in him.
If you remember, you said you should have no objections to try the boy; and upon that cook bought him new shirts; but they are to the good, as I tell her.
Let them both have a fair trial, and at the end of the month I can decide which I like best, and which we had better keep.
Dismissed with these orders, Mrs. Pomfret hastened to report all that had passed to the cook, like a favourite minister, proud to display the extent of her secret influence.
He hoped to secure the approbation of his mistress by scrupulous obedience to all her commands, and faithful care of all that belonged to her.
At the same time he flattered himself he should win the goodwill of his fellow servants by showing a constant desire to oblige them.
He pursued this plan of conduct steadily for nearly three weeks, and found that he succeeded beyond his expectations in pleasing his mistress; but unfortunately he found it more difficult to please his fellow servants, and he sometimes offended when he least expected it.
He had made great progress in the affections of Corkscrew, the butler, by working indeed very hard for him, and doing every day at least half his business.
But one unfortunate night the butler was gone out; the bell rang: he went upstairs; and his mistress asking where Corkscrew was, he answered that he was gone out.
And, as he had told exactly the truth, and meant to do no harm, he was surprised, at the butler's return, when he repeated to him what had passed, at receiving a sudden box on the ear, and the appellation of a mischievous, impertinent, mean-spirited brat.
But no apology coming all day, Franklin at last ventured to request an explanation, or rather, to ask what he had best do on the next occasion.
could you not say I was gone to the washerwoman's?
cried Corkscrew, and looked as if he would have struck him again; " how dare you give me the lie, Mr. Hypocrite?
You would be ready enough, I'll be bound, to make excuses for yourself.
Why are not mistress'clogs cleaned?
Go along and blacken'em, this minute, and send Felix to me.
From this time forward Felix alone was privileged to enter the butler's pantry.
Nor were the bumpers of port the only unlawful rewards which Felix received: his aunt, the cook, had occasion for his assistance, and she had many delicious douceurs in her gift.
Yet when the danger was over, and the hour of adversity had past, the ungrateful cook would forget her benefactor, and, when it came to his supper time, would throw him, with a carelessness that touched him sensibly, anything which the other servants were too nice to eat.
All this Franklin bore with fortitude; nor did he envy Felix the dainties which he ate, sometimes close beside him: " For," said he to himself, " I have a clear conscience, and that is more than Felix can have.
I know how he wins cook's favour too well, and I fancy I know how I have offended her; for since the day I saw the basket, she has done nothing but huff me.
The history of the basket was this.
Mrs. Pomfret, the housekeeper, had several times, directly and indirectly, given the world below to understand that she and her mistress thought there was a prodigious quantity of meat eaten of late.
Now, when she spoke, it was usually at dinner time; she always looked, or Franklin imagined that she looked, suspiciously at him.
Other people looked more maliciously; but, as he felt himself perfectly innocent, he went on eating his dinner in silence.
But at length it was time to explain.
She spoke, but no beef appeared, till Franklin, with a look of sudden recollection, cried, " Did not I see something like a piece of beef in a basket in the dairy?I think --
Ask him why he don't show you the beef in the basket.
cried the cook, coming close up to him with kimboed arms, and looking like a dragon; " and pray, sir, what business has such a one as you to think you see?
And pray, ma'am, will you be pleased to speak-perhaps, ma'am, he'll condescend to obey you-ma'am, will you be pleased to forbid him my dairy?
for here he comes prying and spying about; and how, ma'am, am I to answer for my butter and cream, or anything at all?
I'm sure it's what I can't pretend to, unless you do me the justice to forbid him my places.
said she; " he has as many turns and windings as a hare; but we shall catch him yet, I'll be bound, in some of his doublings.
I knew the nature of him well enough, from the first time I ever set my eyes upon him; but mistress shall have her own way, and see the end of it.
These words, and the bitter sense of injustice, drew tears at length fast down the proud cheek of Franklin, which might possibly have touched Mrs. Pomfret, if Felix, with a sneer, had not called them CROCODILE TEARS.
thought he; " this is too much.
All this could not but be present to his memory; but, seeming to reproach him, Franklin wiped away his crocodile tears, and preserved a magnanimous silence.
The hour of retribution was, however, not so far off as Felix imagined.
Cunning people may go on cleverly in their devices for some time; but although they may escape once, twice, perhaps ninety-nine times, what does that signify?for the hundredth time they come to shame, and lose all their character.
Grown bold by frequent success, Felix became more careless in his operations; and it happened that one day he met his mistress full in the passage, as he was going on one of the cook's secret errands.
Pomfret," said she, opening the housekeeper's room door, " have you a bit of paper?
Manchon was extremely fond of Felix, who, by way of pleasing his mistress, had paid most assiduous court to her dog; yet now his caresses were rather troublesome.
Manchon leaped up, and was not to be rebuffed.
cried Felix, and put him away.
But Manchon leaped up again, and began smelling near the fatal pocket in a most alarming manner.
But Manchon knew better-he had now got his head into Felix's pocket, and would not be quiet till he had drawn from thence, rustling out of its brown paper, half a cold turkey, which had been missing since morning.
exclaimed the housekeeper, darting upon it with horror and amazement.
said Mrs. Churchill, in a composed voice.
cried Mrs. Pomfret, indignation flashing from her eyes.
In my house everybody shall have justice; speak-but what?
He knew how to bring his charge home to her.
He produced a note in her own handwriting, the purport of which was to request her cousin's acceptance of " some DELICATE COLD TURKEY," and to beg she would send her, by the return of the bearer, a little of her cherry-brandy.
Mrs. Pomfret now seeing how far she had been imposed upon, resolved, for the future, to be more upon her guard with Felix, and felt that she had treated Franklin with great injustice, when she accused him of malpractices about the sirloin of beef.
But, passing over a number of small incidents which gradually unfolded the character of the two boys, we must proceed to a more serious affair.
Corkscrew frequently, after he had finished taking away supper, and after the housekeeper was gone to bed, sallied forth to a neighbouring alehouse to drink with his friends.
The alehouse was kept by that cousin of Felix's, who was so fond of " DELICATE cold turkey," and who had such choice cherry-brandy.
All these precautions taken, the butler was at liberty to indulge his favourite passion, which so increased with indulgence, that his wages were by no means sufficient to support him in this way of life.
Every day he felt less resolution to break through his bad habits; for every day drinking became more necessary to him.
With a red, pimpled, bloated face, emaciated legs, and a swelled, diseased body, he appeared the victim of intoxication.
In the morning, when he got up, his hands trembled, his spirits flagged, he could do nothing until he had taken a dram-an operation which he was obliged to repeat several times in the course of the day, as all those wretched people MUST who once acquire this habit.
He had run up a long bill at the alehouse which he frequented; and the landlord, who grew urgent for his money, refused to give further credit.
One night, when Corkscrew had drunk enough only to make him fretful, he leaned with his elbow surlily upon the table, began to quarrel with the landlord, and swore that he had not of late treated him like a gentleman.
To which the landlord coolly replied, " That as long as he had paid like a gentleman, he had been treated like one, and that was as much as anyone could expect, or, at any rate, as much as anyone would meet with in this world.
For the truth of this assertion he appealed, laughing, to a party of men who were drinking in the room.
The men, however, took part with Corkscrew, and, drawing him over to their table, made him sit down with them.
They were in high good-humour, and the butler soon grew so intimate with them, that, in the openness of his heart, he soon communicated to them, not only all his own affairs, but all that he knew, and more than all that he knew, of his mistress '.
His new friends were by no means uninterested by his conversation, and encouraged him as much as possible to talk; for they had secret views, which the butler was by no means sufficiently sober to discover.
Mrs. Churchill had some fine old family plate; and these men belonged to a gang of housebreakers.
Before they parted with Corkscrew, they engaged him to meet them again the next night; their intimacy was still more closely cemented.
One of the men actually offered to lend Corkscrew three guineas towards the payment of his debt, and hinted that, if he thought proper, he could easily get the whole cleared off.
Upon this hint, Corkscrew became all attention, till, after some hesitation on their part, and repeated promises of secrecy on his, they at length disclosed their plans to him.
They gave him to understand, that if he would assist in letting them into his mistress'house, they would let him have an ample share in the booty.
He went home more than half-intoxicated.
His mind was so full of what had passed, that he could not help bragging to Felix, whom he found awake at his return, that he could have his bill paid off at the alehouse whenever he pleased; dropping, besides, some hints, which were not lost upon Felix.
In the morning Felix reminded him of the things which he had said; and Corkscrew, alarmed, endeavoured to evade his questions, by saying that he was not in his senses when he talked in that manner.
Nothing, however, that he could urge made any impression upon Felix, whose recollection on the subject was perfectly distinct, and who had too much cunning himself, and too little confidence in his companion, to be the dupe of his dissimulation.
The butler knew not what to do when he saw that Felix was absolutely determined either to betray their scheme, or to become a sharer in the booty.
The next night came, and he was now to make a final decision; either to determine on breaking off entirely with his new acquaintances, or taking Felix with him to join in the plot.
His debt, his love of drinking, the impossibility of indulging it without a fresh supply of money, all came into his mind at once, and conquered his remaining scruples.
It is said by those whose fatal experience gives them a right to be believed, that a drunkard will sacrifice anything, everything, sooner than the pleasure of habitual intoxication.
How much easier is it never to begin a bad custom than to break through it when once formed!
The hour of rendezvous came, and Corkscrew went to the alehouse, where he found the housebreakers waiting for him, and a glass of brandy ready poured out.
They required of him to give up the key of the house door, that they might get another made by it.
He had left it with Felix, and was now obliged to explain the new difficulty which had arisen.
Felix knew enough to ruin them, and must therefore be won over.
This was no very difficult task; he had a strong desire to have some worked cravats, and the butler knew enough of him to believe that this would be a sufficient bribe.
The cravats were bought and shown to Felix.
He thought them the only things wanting to make him a complete, fine gentleman; and to go without them, especially when he had once seen himself in the glass with one tied on in a splendid bow, appeared impossible.
Even this paltry temptation, working upon his vanity, at length prevailed with a boy whose integrity had long been corrupted by the habits of petty pilfering and daily falsehood.
It was agreed that, the first time his mistress sent him out on a message, he should carry the key of the house door to his cousin's, and deliver it into the hands of one of the gang, who were there in waiting for it.
Without any power of recollection, he flung himself upon the bed, leaving his candle half hanging out of the candlestick beside him.
Franklin slept in the next room to him, and presently awaking, thought he perceived a strong smell of something burning.
He jumped up, and seeing a light under the butler's door, gently opened it, and to his astonishment, beheld one of the bed curtains in flames.
He immediately ran to the butler, and pulled him with all his force, to rouse him from his lethargy.
He came to his senses at length, but was so terrified, and so helpless, that, if it had not been for Franklin, the whole house would soon inevitably have been on fire.
Felix, trembling and cowardly, knew not what to do; and it was curious to see him obeying Franklin, whose turn it now was to command.
He exerted himself with so much good sense, that the fire was presently extinguished.
Everything was now once more safe and quiet.
Mrs. Pomfret, recovering from her fright, postponed all inquiries till the morning, and rejoiced that her mistress had not been awakened, whilst Corkscrew flattered himself that he should be able to conceal the true cause of the accident.
repeated Felix, sneeringly; " what, you MUST be a tell-tale!
In this hope he was mistaken; for the first thing Mrs. Pomfret did in the morning was to come into the room to examine and deplore the burnt curtains, whilst Corkscrew stood by, endeavouring to exculpate himself by all the excuses he could invent.
Turning short round to Franklin, she desired that he would show her where he found the candle when he came into the room.
He took up the candlestick; but the moment the housekeeper cast her eye upon it, she snatched it from his hands; " How did this candlestick come here?
This was not the candlestick you found here last night," cried she.
This was all very true; but Corkscrew had afterwards gone down from his room by a back staircase, unbolted that door, and, upon his return from the alehouse, had taken the japanned candlestick by mistake upstairs, and had left the brass one in its stead upon the hall table.
Indeed, ma'am you forget.
How do you dare to tell me I forget?
Hold your tongue; why should you poke yourself into this scrape; what have you to do with it, I should be glad to know?
Corkscrew could make but very blundering excuses for himself and, conscious of guilt, he turned pale, and appeared so much more terrified than butlers usually appear when detected in a lie, that Mrs. Pomfret resolved, as she said, to sift the matter to the bottom.
Impatiently did she wait till the clock struck nine, and her mistress'bell rang, the signal for her attendance at her levee.
said she, undrawing the curtains.
exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret, as she let fall the bar of the window, which roused her mistress.
I'm so sorry to think of disturbing you," cried Mrs. Pomfret, at the same time throwing the shutters wide open; " but, to be sure, ma'am, I have something to tell you, which won't let you sleep again in a hurry.
I brought up this here key of the house door for reasons of my own, which I'm sure you'll approve of; but I'm not come to that part of my story yet.
I hope you were not disturbed by the noise in the house last night, ma'am.
Now, ma'am, that lantern could not come without hands; and I could not forget about that, you know; for Franklin says, he's sure he left the lantern out.
I never found him out in the least symptom of a lie since ever he came into the house; so one can't help believing in him, like him or not.
Mrs. Churchill could not help smiling.
he that I was always scolding and scolding, enough to make him hate me.
But he's too good to hate anybody; and I'll be bound I'll make it up to him now.
When Franklin brought the urn into the breakfast-parlour, his mistress was standing by the fire with the key in her hand.
She spoke to him of his last night's exertions in terms of much approbation.
said she, pausing; " three weeks, I think?
It is a great trust for so young a person as you are.
Franklin stood silent, with a firm but modest look.
In the daytime it must not be left in the door.
You must not tell anybody where you keep it at night; and the house-door must not be unlocked after eleven o'clock at night, unless by my orders.
Will you take charge of the key upon these conditions?
When Mrs. Churchill's orders were made known, they caused many secret marvellings and murmurings.
Corkscrew and Felix were disconcerted, and dared not openly avow their discontent; and they treated Franklin with the greatest seeming kindness and cordiality.
Everything went on smoothly for three days.
The butler never attempted his usual midnight visits to the alehouse, but went to bed in proper time, and paid particular court to Mrs Pomfret, in order to dispel her suspicions.
She had never had any idea of the real fact, that he and Felix were joined in a plot with house-breakers to rob the house, but thought he only went out at irregular hours to indulge himself in his passion for drinking.
Thus stood affairs the night before Mrs. Churchill's birthday.
Corkscrew, by the housekeeper's means, ventured to present a petition that he might go to the play the next day, and his request was granted.
Franklin came into the kitchen just when all the servants had gathered round the butler, who, with great importance, was reading aloud the play-bill.
Everybody present soon began to speak at once, and with great enthusiasm talked of the playhouse, the actors, and actresses; and then Felix, in the first pause, turned to Franklin, and said, " Lord, you know nothing of all this!
YOU never went to a play, did you?
Delight, surprise and gratitude appeared in Franklin's face at these words.
Corkscrew rejoiced to see that now, at least, he had found a most powerful temptation.
In the meantime, lend me the key of the house door for a minute or two.
answered Franklin, starting; " I'm sorry, but I can't do that, for I've promised my mistress never to let it out of my own hands.
Run, run, and get it for us.
cried Corkscrew, changing his tone; " then, sir, I can't take you to the play.
Felix, you would have no objection, I suppose, to going to the play with me?
added the hypocrite, assuming a tone of friendly persuasion, " you won't be such a blockhead, Franklin, as to lose going to the play for nothing; it's only just obstinacy.
What harm can it do, to lend Mr. Corkscrew the key for five minutes?
he'll give it to you back again safe and sound.
I promised never to let the key out of my own hands, and you would not have me break my trust.
Mr. Spencer told me that was worse than ROBBING.
At the word ROBBING both Corkscrew and Felix involuntarily cast down their eyes, and turned the conversation immediately, saying, that he did very right; that they did not really want the key, and had only asked for it just to try if he would keep his word.
He shall repent of these airs.
To-night I'll watch him, and find out where he hides the key; and when he's asleep we'll get it without thanking him.
This plan Felix put into execution.
They discovered the place where Franklin kept the key at night, stole it whilst he slept, took off the impression in wax, and carefully replaced it in Franklin's trunk, exactly where they found it.
Probably our young readers cannot guess what use they could mean to make of this impression of the key in wax.
Knowing how to do mischief is very different from wishing to do it: and the most innocent persons are generally the least ignorant.
By means of the impression, which they had thus obtained, Corkscrew and Felix proposed to get a false key made by Picklock, a smith who belonged to their gang of house-breakers; and with this false key knew they could open the door whenever they pleased.
Little suspecting what had happened, Franklin, the next morning went to unlock the house door, as usual; but finding the key entangled in the lock, he took it out to examine it, and perceived a lump of wax sticking in one of the wards.
All these things considered, Franklin resolved to take the key just as it was, with the wax sticking to it, to his mistress.
In the meantime, say nothing of what has passed.
Evening came, and after tea Mr. Spencer sent for Franklin upstairs.
When Mr. Spencer came to examine the pantry, he found the large salvers and cups in a basket behind the door, and the other things placed so as to be easily carried off.
Nothing at first appeared in Corkscrew's bedchamber, to strengthen their suspicions, till, just as they were going to leave the room, Mrs. Pomfret exclaimed, " Why, if there is not Mr. Corkscrew's dress coat hanging up there!
and if here isn't Felix's fine cravat that he wanted in such a hurry to go to the play!
Why, sir, they can't be gone to the play.
upon my word I am afraid they are not at the play.
No, sir, you may be sure that they are plotting with their barbarous gang at the alehouse; and they'll certainly break into the house to-night.
We shall all be murdered in our beds, as sure as I'm a living woman, sir; but if you'll only take my advice --
The love of mystery was the only thing which could have conquered Mrs. Pomfret's love of talking.
She was silent, and contented herself the rest of the evening with making signs, looking ominous, and stalking about the house like one possessed with a secret.
Escaped from Mrs. Pomfret's fears and advice, Mr. Spencer went to a shop within a few doors of the alehouse, which he heard Corkscrew frequented, and sent to beg to speak to the landlord.
This was sufficient information.
Mr. Spencer, lest the landlord should give them information of what was going forwards, took him along with him to Bow Street.
A constable and proper assistance was sent to Mrs. Churchill's.
They stationed themselves in a back parlour which opened on a passage leading to the butler's pantry, where the plate was kept.
A little after midnight they heard the hall door open.
Corkscrew and his accomplices went directly to the pantry; and there Mr. Spencer and the constable immediately secured them, as they were carrying off their booty.
Mrs Churchill and Pomfret had spent the night at the house of an acquaintance in the same street.
I was afraid to go to the window this morning; but it was my luck to see them all go by to gaol.
I am sure I never shall forget Felix's look to my dying day!
ma'am; that boy has the best heart in the world.
I could not get him to give a second look at them as they passed.
I thought he would have dropped; and he was so modest, ma'am, when Mr. Spencer spoke to him, and told him he had done his duty.
exclaimed Mrs. Pomfret, with unfeigned joy, " I'm sure you are very good; and I'm very glad of it.
Waked as her custom was, before the day, To do the observance due to sprightly May.
In a retired hamlet on the borders of Wales, between Oswestry and Shrewsbury, it is still the custom to celebrate the 1st of May.
The children of the village, who look forward to this rural festival with joyful eagerness, usually meet on the last day of April to make up their nosegays for the morning and to choose their queen.
Their customary place of meeting is at a hawthorn, which stands in a little green nook, open on one side to a shady lane, and separated on the other side by a thick sweet-brier and hawthorn hedge from the garden of an attorney.
This attorney began the world with nothing, but he contrived to scrape together a good deal of money, everybody knew how.
He built a new house at the entrance of the village, and had a large, well fenced garden, yet, notwithstanding his fences, he never felt himself secure.
Such were his litigious habits, and his suspicious temper, that he was constantly at variance with his simple and peaceable neighbours.
Some pig, or dog, or goat, or goose was for ever trespassing.
His complaints and his extortions wearied and alarmed the whole hamlet.
The paths in his fields were at length unfrequented, his stiles were blocked up with stones or stuffed with brambles and briers, so that not a gosling could creep under, or a giant get over them.
Indeed, so careful were even the village children of giving offence to this irritable man of the law, that they would not venture to fly a kite near his fields lest it should entangle in his trees, or fall upon his meadow.
Mr. Case, for this was the name of our attorney, had a son and a daughter, to whose education he had not time to attend, as his whole soul was intent upon accumulating for them a fortune.
For several years he suffered his children to run wild in the village; but suddenly, on his being appointed to a considerable agency, he began to think of making his children a little genteel.
He sent his son to learn Latin; he hired a maid to wait upon his daughter Barbara; and he strictly forbade her thenceforward to keep company with any of the poor children, who had hitherto been her playfellows.
They were not sorry for this prohibition, because she had been their tyrant rather than their companion.
She was vexed to observe that her absence was not regretted, and she was mortified to perceive that she could not humble them by any display of airs and finery.
There was one poor girl, amongst her former associates, to whom she had a peculiar dislike- Susan Price, a sweet tempered, modest, sprightly, industrious lass, who was the pride and delight of the village.
Her father rented a small farm, and, unfortunately for him, he lived near Attorney Case.
Barbara used often to sit at her window, watching Susan at work.
Susan had been taught to work neatly by her good mother, who was very fond of her, and to whom she was most gratefully attached.
Mrs. Price was an intelligent, active, domestic woman; but her health was not robust.
She earned money, however, by taking in plain work; and she was famous for baking excellent bread and breakfast cakes.
She was respected in the village, for her conduct as a wife and as a mother, and all were eager to show her attention.
At her door the first branch of hawthorn was always placed on May morning, and her Susan was usually Queen of the May.
It was now time to choose the Queen.
The setting sun shone full upon the pink blossoms of the hawthorn, when the merry group assembled upon their little green.
Barbara was now walking in sullen state in her father's garden.
She heard the busy voices in the lane, and she concealed herself behind the high hedge, that she might listen to their conversation.
were the first unwelcome words which she overheard.
repeated Philip, stopping short in the middle of a new tune that he was playing on his pipe.
I want her to sing me this same tune over again; I have not it yet.
She always shows us where the nicest flowers are to be found in the lanes and meadows," said they.
exclaimed a multitude of little voices.
Rose, who was her particular friend, now came forward to assure the impatient assembly, " that she would answer for it Susan would come as soon as she possibly could, and that she probably was detained by business at home.
The little electors thought that all business should give way to theirs, and Rose was dispatched to summon her friend immediately.
If he comes home and finds us here, maybe he'll drive us away; for he says this bit of ground belongs to his garden: though that is not true, I'm sure; for Farmer Price knows, and says, it was always open to the road.
The Attorney wants to get our playground, so he does.
I wish he and his daughter Bab, or Miss Barbara, as she must now be called, were a hundred miles off, out of our way, I know.
No later than yesterday she threw down my nine-pins in one of her ill-humours, as she was walking by with her gown all trailing in the dust.
She does not hold it up nicely, like Susan; and with all her fine clothes she never looks half so neat.
Mamma says she wishes I may be like Susan, when I grow up to be a great girl, and so do I. I should not like to look conceited as Barbara does, if I was ever so rich.
But I wish Susan would come," cried Philip, interrupting himself,
Susan was all this time, as her friend Rose rightly guessed, busy at home.
She was detained by her father's returning later than usual.
Susan put his supper upon the table, and set his own chair for him; but he pushed away the chair and turned from the table, saying --" I shall eat nothing, child!
Why have you such a fire to roast me at this time of the year?
Susan hung up his hat, put his coat over the back of a chair to dry, and then stood anxiously looking at her mother, who was not well; she had this day fatigued herself with baking; and now, alarmed by her husband's moody behaviour, she sat down pale and trembling.
He threw himself into a chair, folded his arms, and fixed his eyes upon the fire.
Susan was the first who ventured to break silence.
Happy the father who has such a daughter as Susan- her unaltered sweetness of temper, and her playful, affectionate caresses, at last somewhat dissipated her father's melancholy.
He could not be prevailed upon to eat any of the supper which had been prepared for him; however, with a faint smile, he told Susan that he thought he could eat one of her guinea-hen's eggs.
She thanked him, and with that nimble alacrity which marks the desire to please, she ran to her neat chicken-yard; but, alas!, her guinea-hen was not there-it had strayed into the attorney's garden.
She saw it through the paling, and timidly opening the little gate, she asked Miss Barbara, who was walking slowly by, to let her come in and take her guinea-hen.
Barbara, who was at this instant reflecting, with no agreeable feelings, upon the conversation of the village children, to which she had recently listened, started when she heard Susan's voice, and with a proud, ill-humoured look and voice, refused her request.
Then Barbara called to her maid, Betty, and bid her catch the mischievous hen.
cried Susan, as they hunted the frightened, screaming creature from corner to corner.
said Betty, holding it fast by the legs.
said Susan; " tell me what I must pay.
said Susan; " I have but sixpence of my own in the world, and here it is.
I only want ONE for my father's supper; you shall have all the rest.
is he so nice that he can eat none but guinea-hen's eggs?
Susan retired disconsolate.
At the door of her father's cottage she saw her friend Rose, who was just come to summon her to the hawthorn bush.
We can do nothing without YOU, dear Susan," cried Rose, running to meet her, at the moment she saw her.
never mind me; I can't come-I can't stay, for my father wants me.
When Rose, however, learnt that her friend's guinea-hen was detained prisoner by the attorney's daughter, she exclaimed, with all the honest warmth of indignation, and instantly ran back to tell the story to her companions.
ay; like father, like daughter," cried Farmer Price, starting from the thoughtful attitude in which he had been fixed, and drawing his chair closer to his wife.
As he lowered his voice, Susan, who was not sure that he wished she should hear what he was going to say, retired from behind his chair.
But the truth is the truth, and it is what I think fittest to be spoken at all times come what will of it.
Attorney Case is too many for me.
He has found what he calls a flaw in my lease; and the lease, he tells me, is not worth a farthing, and that he can turn us all out of our farm to-morrow if he pleases; and sure enough he will please, for I have thwarted him this day, and he swears he'll be revenged of me.
Indeed, he has begun with me badly enough already.
I'm not come to the worst part of my story yet --
Here Farmer Price made a dead stop; and his wife and Susan looked up in his face, breathless with anxiety.
said his wife, in a faint, resigned voice.
Susan ran to open the window, and then returned to support her mother's head.
When she came a little to herself she sat up, begged that her husband would go on, and that nothing might be concealed from her.
Case met Farmer Price as he was coming home, whistling, from a new ploughed field.
The attorney had just dined at The Abbey.
The Abbey was the family seat of an opulent baronet in the neighbourhood, to whom Mr. Case had been agent.
The baronet died suddenly, and his estate and title devolved to a younger brother, who was now just arrived in the country, and to whom Mr. Case was eager to pay his court, in hopes of obtaining his favour.
Of the agency he flattered himself that he was pretty secure; and he thought that he might assume the tone of command towards the tenants, especially towards one who was some guineas in debt, and in whose lease there was a flaw.
Accosting the farmer in a haughty manner, the attorney began with, " So, Farmer Price, a word with you, if you please.
Walk on here, man, beside my horse, and you'll hear me.
You have changed your opinion, I hope, about that bit of land-that corner at the end of my garden?
Why, you said something about its not belonging to me, when you heard me talk of inclosing it the other day.
I wish you a good evening.
You have the money ready for me, I daresay.
I'll get the money back from him, and go myself, if so be it must be so, into the militia-so I will.
The attorney did not expect such a determination, and he represented, in a friendly, hypocritical tone to Price, that he had no wish to drive him to such an extremity; that it would be the height of folly in him TO RUN HIS HEAD AGAINST A WALL FOR NO PURPOSE.
said the farmer, " God forbid!
it's none of mine, I never take what does not belong to me.
All I want of you to say --
The ground is a thing not worth talking of; but it's neither yours nor mine.
In my memory, since the NEW lane was made, it has always been open to the parish; and no man shall inclose it with my good-will.
Truth is truth, and must be spoken; justice is justice, and should be done, Mr.
The glow of enthusiasm, the pride of virtue, which made our hero brave, could not render him insensible.
As he drew nearer home, many melancholy thoughts pressed upon his heart.
He passed the door of his own cottage with resolute steps, however, and went through the village in search of the man who had engaged to be his substitute.
He found him, told him how the matter stood; and luckily the man, who had not yet spent the money, was willing to return it; as there were many others drawn for the militia, who, he observed, would be glad to give him the same price, or more, for his services.
The moment Price got the money, he hastened to Mr. Case's house, walked straight forward into his room, and laying the money down upon his desk, " There, Mr. Attorney, are your nine guineas; count them; now I have done with you.
You forgot the flaw in your lease, which I have safe in this desk.
I've paid my money; you have no right to keep the lease any longer, whether it is a bad one or a good one.
I cannot in conscience return a lease to a tenant in which I know there is a capital flaw.
It is my duty to show it to my employer; or, in other words, to your new landlord, whose agent I have good reasons to expect I shall be; you will live to repent your obstinacy, Mr. Price.
Price retired with melancholy feelings, but not intimidated.
Many a man returns home with a gloomy countenance, who has not quite so much cause for vexation.
When Susan heard her father's story, she quite forgot her guinea-hen, and her whole soul was intent upon her poor mother, who, notwithstanding her utmost exertion, could not support herself under this sudden stroke of misfortune.
In the middle of the night Susan was called up; her mother's fever ran high for some hours; but towards morning it abated, and she fell into a soft sleep with Susan's hand locked fast in hers.
Susan sat motionless, and breathed softly, lest she should disturb her.
The rushlight, which stood beside the bed, was now burnt low; the long shadow of the tall wicker chair flitted, faded, appeared, and vanished, as the flame rose and sunk in the socket.
Susan was afraid that the disagreeable smell might waken her mother; and, gently disengaging her hand, she went on tiptoe to extinguish the candle.
All was silent: the grey light of the morning was now spreading over every object; the sun rose slowly, and Susan stood at the lattice window, looking through the small leaded, cross-barred panes at the splendid spectacle.
A few birds began to chirp; but, as Susan was listening to them, her mother started in her sleep, and spoke unintelligibly.
Susan hung up a white apron before the window to keep out the light, and just then she heard the sound of music at a distance in the village.
As it approached nearer, she knew that it was Philip playing upon his pipe and tabor.
She distinguished the merry voices of her companions " carolling in honour of the May," and soon she saw them coming towards her father's cottage, with branches and garlands in their hands.
She opened quick, but gently, the latch of the door, and ran out to meet them.
they exclaimed, joyfully.
cried Rose, pressing forward; but Susan put her finger upon her lips, and pointed to her mother's window.
Philip's pipe stopped instantly.
Then gently putting aside the crown, her companions bid her say who should wear it for her.
said she, placing the garland upon her friend's head.
We sha'n't hear your voices or the pipe when you have turned the corner into the village; so you need only stop till then, Philip.
It is a pity you can't come with us," said all the children; and little Mary ran after Susan to the cottage door.
Susan kissed the little breathless girl, and returned softly to the side of her mother's bed.
How can I be grateful enough to such a mother as this?
said Susan to herself, as she bent over her sleeping mother's pale countenance.
Her mother's unfinished knitting lay upon a table near the bed, and Susan sat down in her wicker arm-chair, and went on with the row, in the middle of which her hand stopped the preceding evening.
But that was but a dream, Susan; I awoke, and knew it was a dream, and I then fell asleep, and have slept soundly ever since.
How painful it is to awake to the remembrance of misfortune.
Gradually as this poor woman collected her scattered thoughts, she recalled the circumstances of the preceding evening.
She was too certain that she had heard from her husband's own lips the words, " I MUST LEAVE YOU IN THREE DAYS "; and she wished that she could sleep again, and think it all a dream.
I'm afraid it's very late.
Susan, why did you let me lie so long?
And indeed her mother was ill able to bear any hurry, or to do any work this day.
Susan's affectionate, dexterous, sensible activity was never more wanted, or more effectual.
She understood so readily, she obeyed so exactly; and when she was left to her own discretion, judged so prudently, that her mother had little trouble and no anxiety in directing her.
She said that Susan never did too little, or too much.
Susan was mending her father's linen, when Rose tapped softly at the window, and beckoned to her to come out.
This is the money that has been given to us in the village this May morning.
At every door they gave silver.
See how generous they have been-twelve shillings, I assure you.
Now we are a match for Miss Barbara.
You won't like to leave home; I'll go to Barbara, and you shall see your guinea-hen in ten minutes.
Rose hurried away, pleased with her commission, and to accomplish her business.
Miss Barbara's maid Betty was the first person that was visible at the attorney's house.
Rose insisted upon seeing Miss Barbara herself, and she was shown into a parlour to the young lady, who was reading a dirty novel, which she put under a heap of law papers as they entered.
said she to her maid; but as soon as she saw Rose behind the maid, she put on a scornful air.
Well, my good girl, what brings you here?
Something to borrow or beg, I suppose.
May every ambassador-every ambassador in as good a cause-answer with as much dignity and moderation as Rose replied to Barbara upon the present occasion.
She assured her, that the person from whom she came did not send her either to beg or borrow; that she was able to pay the full value of that for which she came to ask; and, producing her well filled purse, " I believe that this is a very good shilling," said she.
It is in her name I ask for it.
Take up your shilling, if you please.
I would have taken a shilling yesterday, if it had been paid at the time properly; but I told Susan, that if it was not paid then, I should keep the hen, and so I shall, I promise her.
You may go back, and tell her so.
The attorney's daughter had, whilst Rose opened her negotiation, measured the depth of her purse with a keen eye; and her penetration discovered that it contained at least ten shillings.
With proper management she had some hopes that the guinea-hen might be made to bring in at least half the money.
The shillings sounded provoking upon the table, as she threw them down one after another, and Barbara coolly replied, " Three won't do.
A fifth shilling was instantly proffered; but Bab, who now saw plainly that she had the game in her own hands, preserved a cold, cruel silence.
Rose went on rapidly, bidding shilling after shilling, till she had completely emptied her purse.
The twelve shillings were spread upon the table.
Barbara's avarice was moved, she consented for this ransom to liberate her prisoner.
Her generous little friends were amazed at Barbara's meanness, but with one accord declared that they were most willing, for their parts, to give up every farthing of the money.
They all went to Susan in a body, and told her so.
They would not wait for one word of thanks, but ran away, leaving only Rose with her to settle the treaty for the guinea-hen.
There is a certain manner of accepting a favour, which shows true generosity of mind.
Many know how to give, but few know how to accept a gift properly.
Susan was touched, but not astonished, by the kindness of her young friends, and she received the purse with as much simplicity as she would have given it.
said Susan, starting from a reverie into which she had fallen, as she contemplated the purse.
Now Susan had heard her mother often, in the course of this day, wish that she had but money enough in the world to pay John Simpson for going to serve in the militia instead of her husband.
She told her mind to Rose, and concluded by saying, decidedly, that " if the money was given to her to dispose of as she pleased, she would give it to her father.
I would not be her for all the guinea-hens, or guineas either, in the whole world.
Why, I'll answer for it, the guinea-hen won't make her happy, and you'll be happy EVEN without; because you are good.
Let me come and help you to-morrow," continued she, looking at Susan's work, " if you have any more mending work to do-I never liked work till I worked with you.
I won't forget my thimble or my scissors," added she, laughing --" though I used to forget them when I was a giddy girl.
I assure you I am a great hand at my needle, now-try me.
Susan assured her friend that she did not doubt the powers of her needle, and that she would most willingly accept of her services, but that UNLUCKILY she had finished all the needle work immediately wanted.
One of the servants from the Abbey had been sent all round the village in the morning in search of bread, and had not been able to procure any that was tolerable.
Mrs. Price's last baking failed for want of good barm.
She was not now strong enough to attempt another herself; and when the brewer's boy came with eagerness to tell her that he had some fine fresh yeast, she thanked him, but sighed, and said it would be of no use to her.
Accordingly she went to work with much prudent care, and when her bread the next morning came out of the oven, it was excellent; at least her mother said so, and she was a good judge.
It was sent to the Abbey; and as the family there had not tasted any good bread since their arrival in the country, they also were earnest and warm in its praise.
Inquiries were made from the housekeeper, and they heard, with some surprise, that this excellent bread was made by a young girl only twelve years old.
The housekeeper, who had known Susan from a child, was pleased to have an opportunity in speaking in her favour.
The benevolent housekeeper despatched her boy Philip for Susan, who never happened to be in such an UNTIDY state as to be unable to obey a summons without a long preparation.
She had, it is true, been very busy; but orderly people can be busy and neat at the same time.
She put on her usual straw hat, and accompanied Rose's mother, who was going with a basket of cleared muslin to the Abbey.
The modest simplicity of Susan's appearance and the artless propriety of the answers she gave to all the questions that were asked her, pleased the ladies at the Abbey, who were good judges of character and manners.
Sir Arthur Somers had two sisters, sensible, benevolent women.
They were not of that race of fine ladies who are miserable the moment they come to THE COUNTRY; nor yet were they of that bustling sort, who quack and direct all their poor neighbours, for the mere love of managing, or the want of something to do.
They were judiciously generous; and whilst they wished to diffuse happiness, they were not peremptory in requiring that people should be happy precisely their own way.
As soon as Miss Somers had spoken to Susan, she inquired for her brother; but Sir Arthur was in his study, and a gentleman was with him on business.
Susan was desirous of returning to her mother, and the ladies therefore would not detain her.
Miss Somers told her, with a smile, when she took leave, that she would call upon her in the evening at six o'clock.
It was impossible that such a grand event as Susan's visit to the Abbey could long remain unknown to Barbara Case and her gossiping maid.
They watched eagerly for the moment of her return, that they might satisfy their curiosity.
Bab could descend, without shame, whenever it suited her purposes, from the height of insolent pride to the lowest meanness of fawning familiarity.
Susan was gathering some marigolds and some parsley for her mother's broth.
dear, how polite we are grown of a sudden!
cried Bab, winking at her maid.
Come, let's hear about it.
Betty, I must hear about it.
Can't you stop gathering those things for a minute, and chat a bit with us, Susan?
My papa may well call her Simple Susan; for simple she is, and simple she will be, all the world over.
For my part, I think she's little better than a downright simpleton.
But, however, simple or not, I'll get what I want out of her.
She'll be able to speak, maybe, when she has settled the grand matter of the broth.
I'll step in and ask to see her mother, that will put her in a good humour in a trice.
Barbara followed Susan into the cottage, and found her occupied with the grand affair of the broth.
said Bab, peeping into the pot that was over the fire.
I'll wait till you go in with it to your mother; for I must ask her how she does myself.
During this interval Bab employed herself, much to her own satisfaction, in cross-questioning Susan.
People, you know, don't always mean exactly, downright, neither more nor less than what they say.
Susan had now poured the broth into a basin, and as she strewed over it the bright orange marigolds, it looked very tempting.
She tasted it, and added now a little salt, and now a little more, till she thought it was just to her mother's taste.
said Susan, trembling at the large mouthfuls which Barbara sucked up with a terrible noise.
exclaimed Barbara, setting down the basin in high anger.
The next time I set my foot in this house, you shall be as saucy to me as you please.
And she flounced out of the house, repeating " TAKE A SPOON, PIG, was what you meant to say.
Susan stood in amazement at the beginning of this speech; but the concluding words explained to her the mystery.
Some years before this time, when Susan was a very little girl, and could scarcely speak plain, as she was eating a basin of bread and milk for her supper at the cottage door, a great pig came up, and put his nose into the basin.
Susan's little companions repeated it, and applied it upon many occasions, whenever anyone claimed more than his share of anything good.
Barbara, who was then not Miss Barbara, but plain Bab, and who had played with all the poor children in the neighbourhood, was often reproved in her unjust methods of division by Susan's proverb.
Susan, as she grew up, forgot the childish saying; but the remembrance of it rankled in Barbara's mind, and it was to this that she suspected Susan had alluded, when she recommended a spoon to her, whilst she was swallowing the basin of broth.
What need have you to trouble her for news about the Abbey folks, when your own papa has been there all the morning, and is just come in, and can tell you everything?
Barbara did not know that her father meant to go to the Abbey that morning, for Attorney Case was mysterious even to his own family about his morning rides.
He never chose to be asked where he was going, or where he had been; and this made his servants more than commonly inquisitive to trace him.
Barbara, against whose apparent childishness and real cunning he was not sufficiently on his guard, had often the art of drawing him into conversation about his visits.
She ran into her father's parlour; but she knew, the moment she saw his face, that it was no time to ask questions; his pen was across his mouth, and his brown wig pushed oblique upon his contracted forehead.
The wig was always pushed crooked whenever he was in a brown or rather, a black study.
It is true that Attorney Case was not in the happiest mood possible; for he was by no means satisfied with his morning's work at the Abbey.
Sir Arthur Somers, the NEW MAN, did not suit him, and he began to be rather apprehensive that he should not suit Sir Arthur.
He had sound reasons for his doubts.
Sir Arthur Somers was an excellent lawyer, and a perfectly honest man.
This seemed to our attorney a contradiction in terms; in the course of his practice the case had not occurred; and he had no precedents ready to direct his proceedings.
Sir Arthur was also a man of wit and eloquence, yet of plain dealing and humanity.
The attorney could not persuade himself to believe that his benevolence was anything but enlightened cunning, and his plain dealing he one minute dreaded as the masterpiece of art, and the next despised as the characteristic of folly.
In short, he had not yet decided whether he was an honest man or a knave.
He had settled accounts with him for his late agency, and had talked about sundry matters of business.
He constantly perceived, however, that he could not impose upon Sir Arthur; but the idea that he could know all the mazes of the law, and yet prefer the straight road, was incomprehensible.
Mr. Case, having paid Sir Arthur some compliments on his great legal abilities, and his high reputation at the bar, he coolly replied, " I have left the bar.
The attorney looked in unfeigned astonishment, that a man who was actually making 3, OOO pounds per annum at the bar should leave it.
At this speech the attorney changed his ground, flattering himself that he should find his man averse to business, and ignorant of country affairs.
He talked of the value of land, and of new leases.
Sir Arthur wished to enlarge his domain, and to make a ride round it.
A map of it was lying upon the table, and Farmer Price's garden came exactly across the new road for the ride.
Sir Arthur looked disappointed; and the keen attorney seized the moment to inform him that " Price's whole land was at his disposal.
cried Sir Arthur, eagerly; " it will not be out of lease, I believe, these ten years.
I'll look into the rent roll again; perhaps I am mistaken.
To come to the point at once, the lease is, ab origine, null and void.
I have detected a capital flaw in the body of it.
I pledge my credit upon it, sir, it can't stand a single term in law or equity.
The attorney observed, that at these words Sir Arthur's eye was fixed with a look of earnest attention.
As I told you before, sir, I'd pledge my whole credit upon the thing-I'd stake my existence.
The attorney went on with all the eagerness of a keen man, who sees a chance at one stroke of winning a rich friend, and of ruining a poor enemy.
He explained, with legal volubility and technical amplification, the nature of the mistake in Mr. Price's lease.
Now, sir, this, you see, is a lease in reversion, which the late Sir Benjamin Somers had not, by his settlement, a right to make.
This is a curious mistake, you see, Sir Arthur; and in filling up those printed leases there's always a good chance of some flaw.
I find it perpetually; but I never found a better than this in the whole course of my practice.
Sir Arthur stood in silence.
Your name shall not appear in it at all.
You have nothing to do but to make over the lease to me.
I make all safe to you with my bond.
Now, being in possession, I come forward in my own proper person.
Case was thunderstruck at these words, or rather, by the look which accompanied them.
He recollected that he had laid himself open before he was sure of Sir Arthur's REAL character.
He softened, and said he should have had certainly more CONSIDERATION in the case of any but a litigious, pig-headed fellow, as he knew Price to be.
When you go home, you will be so good, sir, as to send me his lease, that I may satisfy myself before we stir in this business.
The attorney, brightening up, prepared to take leave; but he could not persuade himself to take his departure without making one push at Sir Arthur about the agency.
The courtiers of Louis the Fourteenth could not have looked more astounded than our attorney, when they received from their monarch a similar answer.
It was this unexpected reply of Sir Arthur's which had deranged the temper of Mr. Case, and caused his wig to stand so crooked upon his forehead, and which had rendered him impenetrably silent to his inquisitive daughter Barbara.
He had often found that small timely presents worked wonderfully upon his own mind, and he judged of others by himself.
The tenants had been in the reluctant but constant practice of making him continual petty offerings; and he resolved to try the same course with Sir Arthur, whose resolution to be his own agent, he thought, argued a close, saving, avaricious disposition.
He had heard the housekeeper at the Abbey inquiring, as he passed through the servants, whether there was any lamb to be gotten?
She said that Sir Arthur was remarkably fond of lamb, and that she wished she could get a quarter for him.
Immediately he sallied into his kitchen, as soon as the idea struck him, and asked a shepherd, who was waiting there, whether he knew of a nice fat lamb to be had anywhere in the neighbourhood.
The attorney easily caught at these words, and speedily devised a scheme for obtaining Susan's lamb for nothing.
It would be something strange if an attorney of his talents and standing was not an over-match for Simple Susan.
He prowled forth in search of his prey.
He found Susan packing up her father's little wardrobe; and when she looked up as she knelt, he saw that she had been in tears.
My father goes to-morrow.
cried she, looking up at him, and a sudden ray of hope beamed in her ingenuous countenance.
Susan clasped her hands in silence, more expressive than words.
She started up in an ecstasy.
said Susan; " but what can that do?
Why do you look so pale, girl?
Are not sheep killed every day, and don't you eat mutton?
Is your lamb better than anybody else's, think you?
cried Susan, catching the skirt of his coat with an eager, trembling hand-" a whole week, did you say?
My mother may get better in that time.
No, I do not love my lamb half so well.
The struggle of her mind ceased, and with a placid countenance and calm voice, " take the lamb," said she.
As soon, however, as her persecutor turned his back and quitted the house, Susan sat down, and hid her face in her hands.
She was soon aroused by the sound of her mother's feeble voice, who was calling Susan from the inner room where she lay.
Susan went in; but did not undraw the curtain as she stood beside the bed.
Undraw the curtain, that I may see you, and tell me- I thought I heard some strange voice just now talking to my child.
Something's amiss, Susan," said her mother, raising herself as well as she was able in the bed, to examine her daughter's countenance.
said the poor woman, joining her hands.
Susan closed the curtains, and was silent.
She was called out of the room at this moment, for a messenger was come from the Abbey for the bread-bills.
It was she who always made out the bills, for though she had not a great number of lessons from the writing-master, she had taken so much pains to learn that she could write a very neat, legible hand, and she found this very useful.
She was not, to be sure, particularly inclined to draw out a long bill at this instant, but business must be done.
She set to work, ruled her lines for the pounds, shillings and pence, made out the bill for the Abbey, and despatched the impatient messenger.
She then resolved to make out all the bills for the neighbours, who had many of them taken a few loaves and rolls of her baking.
This was sooner said than done, for she found that she had a great number of bills to write, and the slate on which she had entered the account was not immediately to be found; and when it was found the figures were almost rubbed out.
Barbara had sat down upon it.
Susan pored over the number of loaves, and the names of the persons who took them; and she wrote and cast up sums, and corrected and re-corrected them, till her head grew quite puzzled.
The table was covered with little square bits of paper, on which she had been writing bills over and over again, when her father came in with a bill in his hand.
What is your head running upon?
Here, look at the bill you were sending up to the Abbey?
I met the messenger, and luckily asked to see how much it was.
Susan looked and blushed; it was written, " Sir Arthur Somers, to John Price, debtor, six dozen LAMBS, so much.
She altered it, and returned it to her father; but he had taken up some of the papers which lay upon the table.
All of them, I think, seem to be wrong, if I can read," said her father, rather angrily, and he pointed out to her sundry strange mistakes.
Her head, indeed, had been running upon her poor lamb.
She corrected all the mistakes with so much patience, and bore to be blamed with so much good humour, that her father at last said, that it was impossible ever to scold Susan, without being in the wrong at the last.
As soon as all was set right, Price took the bills, and said he would go round to the neighbours, and collect the money himself; for that he should be very proud to have it to say to them, that it was all earned by his own little daughter.
Susan resolved to keep the pleasure of telling him of his week's reprieve till he should come home to sup, as he had promised to do, in her mother's room.
She was not sorry to hear him sigh as he passed the knapsack, which she had been packing up for his journey.
said she, to herself; " but I know he will be a little sorry too for my poor lamb.
She knew that they would be disappointed, if she was later than usual, and she did not like to keep them waiting, because they were very patient, good boys; so she put off the visit to her lamb, and went immediately for her brothers.
Ev'n in the spring and playtime of the year, That calls th'unwonted villager abroad, With all her little ones, a sportive train, To gather king-cups in the yellow mead, And prink their heads with daisies.
The close shaven green, which sloped down from the hatch-door of the schoolroom, was paled round with a rude paling, which, though decayed in some parts by time, was not in any place broken by violence.
The place bespoke order and peace.
The dame who governed was well obeyed, because she was just and well beloved, and because she was ever glad to give well earned praise and pleasure to her little subjects.
Susan had once been under her gentle dominion, and had been deservedly her favourite scholar.
The dame often cited her as the best example to the succeeding tribe of emulous youngsters.
She had scarcely opened the wicket which separated the green before the schoolroom door from the lane, when she heard the merry voices of the children, and saw the little troup issuing from the hatchway, and spreading over the green.
The voices were still raised one above another, all eager to establish some important observation about ninepins, or marbles, or tops, or bows and arrows, when suddenly music was heard and the crowd was silenced.
The music seemed to be near the spot where the children were standing, and they looked round to see whence it could come.
Susan pointed to the great oak-tree, and they beheld, seated under its shade, an old man playing upon his harp.
The children all approached-at first timidly, for the sounds were solemn; but as the harper heard their little footsteps coming towards him, he changed his hand and played one of his most lively tunes.
The circle closed, and pressed nearer and nearer to him; some who were in the foremost row whispered to each other, " He is blind!
and " He looks very poor- what a ragged coat he wears!
All these remarks were made whilst he was tuning his harp, for when he once more began to play, not a word was uttered.
He seemed pleased by their simple exclamations of wonder and delight, and, eager to amuse his young audience, he played now a gay and now a pathetic air, to suit their several humours.
Susan's voice, which was soft and sweet, expressive of gentleness and good nature, caught his ear the moment she spoke.
He turned his face eagerly to the place where she stood; and it was observed, that whenever she said that she liked any tune particularly he played it over again.
cried Susan's little brother William, who had stationed himself between the old man's knees.
Can you tell us what sort of person she is?
The boy clapped his hands.
exclaimed the child, and " quite right " echoed on all sides.
said William, examining the old man attentively.
Was not that good-natured?
And when you said you did not like the tune she liked best, she was not angry with you, but said,'Then play William's first, if you please,'was not that good-tempered?
Who are you, my old fellow?
Well, play us a tune, if you can play ever a good one-play me-let's see, what shall he play, Bob?
added he turning to his companion.
The old man, though he did not seem quite pleased with the peremptory manner of the request, played, as he was desired, " Bumper Squire Jones "; and several other tunes were afterwards bespoke by the same rough and tyrannical voice.
The little children shrunk back in timid silence, and eyed the brutal boy with dislike.
This boy was the son of Attorney Case; and as his father had neglected to correct his temper when he was a child, as he grew up it became insufferable.
All who were younger and weaker than himself, dreaded his approach, and detested him as a tyrant.
When the old harper was so tired that he could play no more, a lad, who usually carried his harp for him, and who was within call, came up, and held his master's hat to the company, saying, " Will you be pleased to remember us?
The children readily produced their halfpence, and thought their wealth well bestowed upon this poor, good-natured man, who had taken so much pains to entertain them, better even than upon the gingerbread woman, whose stall they loved to frequent.
The hat was held some time to the attorney's son before he chose to see it.
At last he put his hand surlily into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a shilling.
There were sixpennyworth of halfpence in the hat.
you can see the copper through it quite plain.
Sir, nobody will take it from us.
You have taken it from me, and I shan't take it back again, I promise you.
A whisper of " that's very unjust," was heard.
The little assembly, though under evident constraint, could no longer suppress their indignation.
cried the tyrant, sternly, looking down upon his judges.
Susan's little brothers had held her gown fast, to prevent her from moving at the beginning of this contest, and she was now so much interested to see the end of it, that she stood still, without making any resistance.
He was a sickly-looking boy, and of a remarkably peaceful disposition.
Young Case fancied that he would be afraid to give judgment against him.
However, after some moments'hesitation, and after turning the shilling round several times, he pronounced, " that, as far as his judgment went, but he did not pretend to be a downright CERTAIN SURE of it, the shilling was not over and above good.
Then to Susan, to screen himself from manifest danger, for the attorney's son looked upon him with a vengeful mien, " But here's Susan here, who understands silver a great deal better than I do; she takes a power of it for bread, you know.
Susan now walked away with her two little brothers, and all the other children separated to go to their several homes.
The old harper called to Susan, and begged, that, if she was going towards the village, she would be so kind as to show him the way.
His lad took up his harp, and little William took the old man by the hand.
They were now come to a gate, which opened upon the high road to the village.
Now I must bid you a good evening; for I'm in a great hurry to get home, and must go the short way across the fields here, which would not be so pleasant for you, because of the stiles.
The old harper thanked her, and went along the high road, whilst she and her brothers tripped on as fast as they could by the short way across the fields.
When they came to their own cottage-door, they heard many voices, and they saw, when they entered, several ladies standing in the kitchen.
Is it you, Susan, who keeps these things in such nice order?
continued Miss Somers, looking round the kitchen.
Before Susan could reply, little William pushed forward, and answered, " Yes, ma'am, it is MY sister Susan that keeps everything neat; and she always comes to school for us, too, which was what caused her to be so late.
It was we kept her, and we hopes, ma'am, as you ARE-as you SEEM so good, you won't take it amiss.
Miss Somers and her sister smiled at the affectionate simplicity with which Susan's little brothers undertook her defence, and they were, from this slight circumstance, disposed to think yet more favourably of a family which seemed so well united.
They took Susan along with them through the village.
Many neighbours came to their doors, and far from envying, they all secretly wished Susan well as she passed.
She went in, and was rejoiced to see the shelves at the back of the counter well-furnished with glossy tiers of stuffs, and gay, neat printed linens and calicoes.
Now stretched his arm to the highest shelves, and brought down in a trice what seemed to be beyond the reach of any but a giant's arm; now dived into some hidden recess beneath the counter, and brought to light fresh beauties and fresh temptations.
Susan looked on with more indifference than most of the spectators.
She was thinking much of her lamb, and more of her father.
Some people are wholly inattentive to the lesser feelings, and incapable of reading the countenances of those on whom they bestow their bounty.
Miss Somers and her sister were not of this roughly charitable class.
Her sister observed, that Susan looked as if her thoughts were far distant from gowns.
Put this shining yellow counter," continued she, pointing to the guinea, " in your pocket, and make what use of it you please.
From what we know, and from what we have heard of you, we are persuaded that you will make a good use of it.
Good night, Susan, we shall soon come again to your neat cottage.
Susan curtsied, with an expressive look of gratitude, and with a modest frankness in her countenance, which seemed to say, " I would tell you, and welcome, what I want to do with the guinea; but I am not used to speak before so many people.
When you come to our cottage again you shall know all.
When Susan had departed, Miss Somers turned to the obliging shopkeeper, who was folding up all the things he had opened.
She selected the prettiest; and whilst the man was rolling it in paper, she asked him several questions about Susan and her family, which he was delighted to answer, because he had now all opportunity of saying as much as he wished in her praise.
She put the crown upon my daughter Rose's head with her own hands; and, to be sure, Rose loves her as well as if she was her own sister.
But I don't speak from partiality; for I am no relation whatever to the Prices-only a well-wisher, as everyone, I believe, who knows them is.
I'll send the parcel up to the Abbey, shall I, ma'am?
You will, I hope, find us good customers and well-wishers," added she, with a smile; " for those who wish well to their neighbours surely deserve to have well-wishers themselves.
A few words may encourage the benevolent passions, and may dispose people to live in peace and happiness; a few words may set them at variance, and may lead to misery and lawsuits.
Attorney Case and Miss Somers were both equally convinced of this, and their practice was uniformly consistent with their principles.
But now to return to Susan.
She put the bright guinea carefully into the glove with the twelve shillings, which she had received from her companions on May day.
She would be quite stout again, for she certainly is a great deal better, since I told her that father would stay a week longer.
but she would not have blessed Attorney Case, though, if she had known about my poor Daisy.
Susan took the path that led to the meadow by the waterside, resolved to go by herself, and take leave of her innocent favourite.
But she did not pass by unperceived.
Her little brothers were watching for her return, and, as soon as they saw her, they ran after her, and overtook her as she reached the meadow.
cried William; but, looking up in his sister's face, he saw tears in her eyes, and he was silent, and walked on quietly.
Susan saw her lamb by the water-side.
The two men were Attorney Case and the butcher.
The butcher was feeling whether the lamb was fat.
Susan sat down upon the bank in silent sorrow; her little brothers ran up to the butcher, and demanded whether he was going to DO ANY HARM to the lamb.
The butcher did not answer, but the attorney replied, " It is not your sister's lamb any longer; it's mine-mine to all intents and purposes.
cried the children, with terror; " and will you kill it?
The little boys now burst into piercing lamentations.
They pushed away the butcher's hand; they threw their arms round the neck of the lamb; they kissed its forehead-it bleated.
said William, and he wept bitterly.
The butcher looked aside, and hastily rubbed his eyes with the corner of his blue apron.
The attorney stood unmoved; he pulled up the head of the lamb, which had just stooped to crop a mouthful of clover.
If it's fat-the sooner the better.
And he walked off, deaf to the prayers of the poor children.
As soon as the attorney was out of sight, Susan rose from the bank where she was seated, came up to her lamb, and stooped to gather some of the fresh dewy trefoil, to let it eat out of her hand for the last time.
Poor Daisy licked her well known hand.
Susan thanked him, but walked away quickly, without looking again at her lamb.
Her little brothers begged the man to stay a few minutes, for they had gathered a handful of blue speedwell and yellow crowsfoot, and they were decking the poor animal.
As it followed the boys through the village, the children collected as they passed, and the butcher's own son was amongst the number.
Susan's steadiness about the bad shilling was full in this boy's memory; it had saved him a beating.
He went directly to his father to beg the life of Susan's lamb.
The crowd dispersed, but murmured, and the butcher went to the attorney.
In the meantime Susan's brothers ran home to tell her that her lamb was put into the paddock for the night; this was all they knew, and even this was some comfort to her.
Rose, her good friend, was with her, and she had before her the pleasure of telling her father of his week's reprieve.
Her mother was better, and even said she was determined to sit up to supper in her wicker armchair.
Susan was getting this ready for supper, when little William, who was standing at the house door, watching in the dusk for his father's return, suddenly exclaimed, " Susan!
if here is not our old man!
The neighbours were kind enough to show me whereabouts you lived; for, though I didn't know your name, they guessed who I meant by what I said of you all.
Susan came to the door, and the old man was delighted to hear her speak again.
My boy has got a bed for himself here in the village; but I have no place.
Could you be so charitable as to give an old blind man a night's lodging?
Susan said she would step in and ask her mother; and she soon returned with an answer, that he was heartily welcome, if he could sleep upon the children's bed, which was but small.
The old man thankfully entered the hospitable cottage.
He struck his head against the low roof, as he stepped over the doorsill.
Of this he had just had experience at the house of the Attorney Case, while he had asked, but had been roughly refused all assistance by Miss Barbara, who was, according to her usual custom, standing staring at the hall door.
The old man's harp was set down in Farmer Price's kitchen, and he promised to play a tune for the boys before they went to bed; their mother giving them leave to sit up to supper with their father.
He came home with a sorrowful countenance; but how soon did it brighten, when Susan, with a smile, said to him, " Father, we've good news for you!
Who knows, dearest mother, but we may keep him with us for ever!
As she spoke, she threw her arms round her father, who pressed her to his bosom without speaking, for his heart was full.
He was some little time before he could perfectly believe that what he heard was true; but the revived smiles of his wife, the noisy joy of his little boys, and the satisfaction that shone in Susan's countenance, convinced him that he was not in a dream.
As they sat down to supper, the old harper was made welcome to his share of the cheerful though frugal meal.
Susan's father, as soon as supper was finished, even before he would let the harper play a tune for his boys, opened the little purse, which Susan had given him.
He was surprised at the sight of the twelve shillings, and still more, when he came to the bottom of the purse, to see the bright golden guinea.
Hey, Susan is this your first baking?
I kept it for a surprise, to do your mother's heart good, Susan.
Here's twenty-nine shillings, and the Abbey bill, which is not paid yet, comes to ten more.
What think you of this, wife?
Have we not a right to be proud of our Susan?
But tell us, child, how came you by all this riches?
and how comes it that I don't go to-morrow?
All this happy news makes me so gay in myself, I'm afraid I shall hardly understand it rightly.
But speak on, child-first bringing us a bottle of the good mead you made last year from your own honey.
Susan did not much like to tell the history of her guinea-hen-of the gown and of her poor lamb.
Part of this would seem as if she was vaunting of her own generosity, and part of it she did not like to recollect.
But her mother pressed to know the whole, and she related it as simply as she could.
When she came to the story of her lamb, her voice faltered, and everybody present was touched.
The old harper sighed once, and cleared his throat several times.
He then asked for his harp, and, after tuning it for a considerable time, he recollected-for he had often fits of absence-that he sent for it to play the tune he had promised to the boys.
This harper came from a great distance, from the mountains of Wales, to contend with several other competitors for a prize, which had been advertised by a musical society about a year before this time.
There was to be a splendid ball given upon the occasion at Shrewsbury, which was about five miles from our village.
The prize was ten guineas for the best performer on the harp, and the prize was now to be decided in a few days.
All this intelligence Barbara had long since gained from her maid, who often paid visits to the town of Shrewsbury, and she had long had her imagination inflamed with the idea of this splendid music-meeting and ball.
Often had she sighed to be there, and often had she revolved in her mind schemes for introducing herself to some GENTEEL neighbours, who might take her to the ball IN THEIR CARRIAGE.
How rejoiced, how triumphant was she, when this very evening, just about the time when the butcher was bargaining with her father about Susan's lamb, a servant from the Abbey rapped at the door, and left a card for Mr. and Miss Barbara Case.
I daresay, when they see that I'm not a vulgar person, and all that; and if I go cunningly to work with Miss Somers, as I shall, to be sure, I daresay, she'll take me to the ball with her.
The least she can do for you is to take you in her carriage, WHICH costs nothing, but is just a common civility, to a ball.
I must have it to DINE IN, at the Abbey, or the ladies will think nothing of me; and Betty, remember the mantua-maker too.
I must see and coax papa to buy me a new gown against the ball.
I can see, you know, something of the fashions to-morrow at the Abbey.
I shall LOOK THE LADIES WELL OVER, I promise you.
In full confidence that her present and her bonnet would operate effectually in her favour, Miss Barbara paid her first visit at the Abbey.
She expected to see wonders.
She was embarrassed when she saw books and work and drawings upon the table, and she began to think that some affront was meant to her, because the COMPANY did not sit with their hands before them.
One by one the ladies dropped off.
Miss Somers went out of the room for a few minutes to alter her dress, as it was the custom of the family, before dinner.
She left a portfolio of pretty drawings and good prints, for Miss Barbara's amusement; but Miss Barbara's thoughts were so intent upon the harpers'ball, that she could not be entertained with such TRIFLES.
How unhappy are those who spend their time in expectation!
They can never enjoy the present moment.
Whilst Barbara was contriving means of interesting Miss Somers in her favour, she recollected, with surprise, that not one word had yet been said of her present of the guinea-hen.
Mrs. Betty, in the hurry of her dressing her young lady in the morning, had forgotten it; but it came just whilst Miss Somers was dressing; and the housekeeper came into her mistress'room to announce its arrival.
Miss Somers knew, by the tone which the housekeeper delivered this message, that there was something in the business which did not perfectly please her.
She made no answer, in expectation that the housekeeper, who was a woman of a very open temper, would explain her cause of dissatisfaction.
In this she was not mistaken.
And how Miss Bab came by it is the thing that puzzles me.
If my boy Philip was at home, maybe, as he's often at Mrs. Price's (which I don't disapprove), he might know the history of the guinea-hen.
I expect him home this night, and if you have no objection, I will sift the affair.
Attorney Case expected to smell mint sauce, and, as the covers were taken from off the dishes, looked around for lamb; but no lamb appeared.
He had a dexterous knack of twisting the conversation to his point.
Sir Arthur was speaking, when they sat down to dinner, of a new carving knife, which he lately had had made for his sister.
The attorney immediately went from carving-knives to poultry; thence to butcher's meat.
Some joints, he observed, were much more difficult to carve than others.
He never saw a man carve better than the gentleman opposite him, who was the curate of the parish.
Sir Arthur, pray may I ask, when you carve a forequarter of lamb, do you, when you raise the shoulder, throw in salt, or not?
This well prepared question was not lost upon Sir Arthur.
The attorney was thanked for his intended present; but mortified and surprised to hear Sir Arthur say that it was a constant rule of his never to accept of any presents from his neighbours.
After the ladies left the dining-room, as they were walking up and down the large hall, Miss Barbara had a fair opportunity of imitating her keen father's method of conversing.
One of the ladies observed, that this hall would be a charming place for music.
Bab brought in harps and harpers, and the harpers'ball, in a breath.
Barbara fixed her eyes upon Miss Somers as she spoke; but she could not read her countenance as distinctly as she wished, because Miss Somers was at this moment letting down the veil of her hat.
said Miss Somers to her companions; " I have a pretty guinea-hen to show you.
Barbara, secretly drawing propitious omens from the guinea-hen, followed with a confidential step.
The pheasantry was well filled with pheasants, peacocks, etc., and Susan's pretty little guinea-hen appeared well, even in this high company.
Barbara was in glory; but her glory was of short duration.
Just as Miss Somers was going to inquire into the guinea-hen's history, Philip came up, to ask permission to have a bit of sycamore, to turn a nutmeg box for his mother.
He was an ingenious lad, and a good turner for his age.
Sir Arthur had put by a bit of sycamore, on purpose for him; and Miss Somers told him where it was to be found.
He thanked her: but in the midst of his bow of thanks his eye was struck by the sight of the guinea-hen, and he involuntarily exclaimed, " Susan's guinea-hen, I declare!
At the sound of Bab's voice, Philip turned-saw her-and indignation, unrestrained by the presence of all the amazed spectators, flashed in his countenance.
said Miss Somers, in a pacifying tone; but Philip was not inclined to be pacified.
and, without waiting for permission, he spoke out, and gave a full, true, and warm account of Rose's embassy, and of Miss Barbara's cruel and avaricious proceedings.
Barbara denied, prevaricated, stammered, and at last was overcome with confusion; for which even the most indulgent spectators could scarcely pity her.
Miss Somers, however, mindful of what was due to her guest, was anxious to dispatch Philip for his piece of sycamore.
Bab recovered herself as soon as he was out of sight; but she further exposed herself by exclaiming, " I'm sure I wish this pitiful guinea-hen had never come into my possession.
I wish Susan had kept it at home, as she should have done!
So the guinea-hen was delivered to Philip, who set off joyfully with his prize, and was soon in sight of Farmer Price's cottage.
He stopped when he came to the door.
He recollected Rose and her generous friendship for Susan.
He was determined that she should have the pleasure of restoring the guinea-hen.
All the children who had given up their little purse on May day were assembled on the play-green.
They were delighted to see the guinea-hen once more.
Philip took his pipe and tabor, and they marched in innocent triumph towards the whitewashed cottage.
my father has something to say to you.
He darted into his father's house.
The little procession stopped, and in a few minutes the bleating of a lamb was heard.
Through a back passage, which led into the paddock behind the house, they saw the butcher leading a lamb.
exclaimed Rose --" It's Daisy!
repeated all her companions.
and there was a universal shout of joy.
But, at anyrate, here's Susan's lamb safe and sound.
I'd have taken it back sooner, but I was off before day to the fair, and am but just come back.
Daisy, however, has been as well off in my paddock as he would have been in the field by the waterside.
The pipe and tabor now once more began to play, and the procession moved on in joyful order, after giving the humane butcher three cheers; three cheers which were better deserved than " loud huzzas " usually are.
Susan was working in her arbour, with her little deal table before her.
When she heard the sound of the music, she put down her work and listened.
She saw the crowd of children coming nearer and nearer.
They had closed round Daisy, so that she did not see it; but as they came up to the garden gate she saw that Rose beckoned to her.
Philip played as loud as he could, that she might not hear, till the proper moment, the bleating of the lamb.
Susan opened the garden-wicket, and at this signal the crowd divided, and the first thing that Susan saw, in the midst of her taller friends, was little smiling Mary, with the guinea-hen in her arms.
cried Mary, as Susan started with joyful surprise; " you have more to see.
At this instant the music paused, Susan heard the bleating of a lamb, and scarcely daring to believe her senses, she pressed eagerly forward, and beheld poor Daisy- she burst into tears.
I would not have parted with you for anything else in the whole world.
Thank you, thank you all," added she, to her companions, who sympathized in her joy, even more than they had sympathized in her sorrow.
As Susan pronounced these words, a voice behind the little listening crowd cried, in a brutal tone, " Let us pass, if you please; you have no right to stop up the public road!
This was the voice of Attorney Case, who was returning with his daughter Barbara from his visit to the Abbey.
He saw the lamb, and tried to whistle as he went on.
Barbara also saw the guinea-hen, and turned her head another way, that she might avoid the contemptuous, reproachful looks of those whom she only affected to despise.
Even her new bonnet, in which she had expected to be so much admired, was now only serviceable to hide her face and conceal her mortification.
Now I've my pretty guinea-hen safe once more, I should think of returning your money.
I WILL keep your money for my father.
Perhaps some time or other I may be able to earn --
Come, we must go about our business, and let her have them all to herself.
The crowd moved away in consequence of Philip's considerate advice: but it was observed that he was the very last to stir from the garden-wicket himself.
He stayed, first, to inform Susan that it was Rose who tied the ribands on Daisy's head.
Then he stayed a little longer to let her into the history of the guinea-hen, and to tell her who it was that brought the hen home from the Abbey.
Rose held the sieve, and Susan was feeding her long lost favourite, whilst Philip leaned over the wicket, prolonging his narration.
I must cut your nice wings; but I won't hurt you.
When this operation was successfully performed, which it certainly could never have been if Philip had not held the hen for Susan, he recollected that his mother had sent him with a message to Mrs. Price.
who lapped at his ease, whilst Susan caressed him, and thanked her fond father and her pleased mother.
Philip departed, and as he went out of the garden-wicket, he looked up, and saw Bab and her maid Betty staring out of the window, as usual.
On this, he immediately turned back to try whether he had shut the gate fast, lest the guinea-hen might stray out, and fall again into the hands of the enemy.
Miss Barbara, in the course of this day, felt considerable mortification, but no contrition.
She was vexed that her meanness was discovered, but she felt no desire to cure herself of any of her faults.
The ball was still uppermost in her vain, selfish soul.
As papa says, it's a good thing to have two strings to one's bow.
Now, some officers, who were quartered at Shrewsbury, had become acquainted with Mr. Case.
They had gotten into some quarrel with a tradesman of the town, and Attorney Case had promised to bring them through the affair, as the man threatened to take the law of them.
It was with this lady that Miss Barbara now hoped to go to the harpers'ball.
They are going out on a party, somewhere into the country, and breakfast here on their way.
Pray, Betty, don't forget that Mrs. Strathspey can't breakfast without honey.
I heard her say so myself.
Step over to her in the morning with MY COMPLIMENTS, and see what you can do.
In the morning Betty went with Miss Barbara's compliments to Susan, to beg some honey for Mrs. Strathspey, who could not breakfast without it.
Susan did not like to part with her honey, because her mother loved it, and she therefore gave Betty but a small quantity.
When Barbara saw how little Susan sent, she called her A MISER, and she said she MUST have some more for Mrs. Strathspey.
Come with me, Betty," said the young lady, who found it at present convenient to forget her having declared, the day that she sucked up the broth, that she never would honour Susan with another visit.
You know, on a particular occasion such as this, neighbours must help one another.
Susan, though she was generous, was not weak; she was willing to give to those she loved, but not disposed to let anything be taken from her, or coaxed out of her, by those she had reason to despise.
She civilly answered, that she was sorry she had no more honey to spare.
Barbara grew angry, and lost all command of herself, when she saw that Susan, without regarding her reproaches, went on looking through the glass pane in the beehive.
Will you give it me or not?
Will you give me that piece of the honey-comb that lies there?
said Bab, " then see if I don't take it!
She stretched across Susan for the honey-comb, which was lying by some rosemary leaves that Susan had freshly gathered for her mother's tea.
Bab grasped, but at her first effort she only reached the rosemary.
She made a second dart at the honey-comb, and, in her struggle to obtain it, she overset the beehive.
The bees swarmed about her.
Her maid Betty screamed and ran away.
Susan, who was sheltered by a laburnum tree, called to Barbara, upon whom the black clusters of bees were now settling, and begged her to stand still, and not to beat them away.
But instead of standing quietly, Bab buffeted and stamped and roared, and the bees stung her terribly.
Her arms and her face swelled in a frightful manner.
She was helped home by poor Susan and treacherous Mrs. Betty, who, now the mischief was done, thought only of exculpating herself to her master.
I shall be turned away for it, you'll see.
Can't you do something for me?
I don't mind the pain either so much as being such a fright.
Pray, how am I to be fit to be seen at breakfast by Mrs. Strathspey; and I suppose I can't go to the ball either to-morrow, after all!
That's not what pains me; but I'm thinking of what your papa will say to me when he sees you, miss.
Whilst this amiable mistress and maid were in their adversity reviling one another, Susan, when she saw that she could be of no further use, was preparing to depart, but at the house-door, she was met by Mr. Case.
Mr. Case had revolved things in his mind; for his second visit at the Abbey pleased him as little as his first, owing to a few words which Sir Arthur and Miss Somers dropped in speaking of Susan and Farmer Price.
Mr. Case began to fear that he had mistaken his game in quarrelling with this family.
The refusal of his present dwelt upon the attorney's mind; and he was aware that, if the history of Susan's lamb ever reached the Abbey, he was undone.
He now thought that the most prudent course he could possibly follow would be to HUSH UP matters with the Prices with all convenient speed.
Consequently, when he met Susan at his door, he forced a gracious smile.
On hearing his daughter he cried out, " Barbara, Barbara-Bab!
come downstairs, child, and speak to Susan Price.
But as no Barbara answered, her father stalked upstairs directly, opened the door, and stood amazed at the spectacle of her swelled visage.
Betty instantly began to tell the story of Barbara's mishap her own way.
Bab contradicted her as fast as she spoke.
Couldn't you be content, without seizing upon the honey-comb by force?
This is scandalous behaviour, and what, I assure you, I can't countenance.
Susan now interceded for Barbara; and the attorney, softening his voice, said that " Susan was a great deal too good to her; as you are, indeed," added he, " to everybody.
I forgive her for your sake.
Susan curtsied, in great surprise; but her lamb could not be forgotten, and she left the attorney's house as soon as she could, to make her mother's rosemary tea breakfast.
Mr. Case saw that Susan was not so simple as to be taken in by a few fair words.
His next attempt was to conciliate Farmer Price.
The farmer was a blunt, honest man, and his countenance remained inflexibly contemptuous, when the attorney addressed him in his softest tone.
So stood matters the day of the long expected harpers'ball.
Miss Barbara Case, stung by Susan's bees, could not, after all her manoeuvres, go with Mrs. Strathspey to the ball.
The ballroom was filled early in the evening.
There was a numerous assembly.
The harpers, who contended for the prize, were placed under the music-gallery at the lower end of the room.
Amongst them was our old blind friend, who, as he was not so well clad as his competitors, seemed to be disdained by many of the spectators.
Six ladies and six gentlemen were now appointed to be judges of the performance.
They were seated in a semicircle, opposite to the harpers.
The Miss Somerses, who were fond of music, were amongst the ladies in the semicircle; and the prize was lodged in the hands of Sir Arthur.
The first harp sounded, and as each musician tried his skill, the audience seemed to think that each deserved the prize.
The old blind man was the last.
He tuned his instrument; and such a simple, pathetic strain was heard as touched every heart.
All were fixed in delighted attention; and when the music ceased, the silence for some moments continued.
The silence was followed by a universal buzz of applause.
The judges were unanimous in their opinions, and it was declared that the old blind harper, who played the last, deserved the prize.
The simple, pathetic air which won the suffrages of the whole assembly, was his own composition.
He was pressed to give the words belonging to the music; and at last he modestly offered to repeat them, as he could not see to write.
Miss Somers'ready pencil was instantly produced; and the old harper dictated the words of his ballad, which he called-" Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb.
Miss Somers looked at her brother from time to time, as she wrote; and Sir Arthur, as soon as the old man had finished, took him aside, and asked him some questions, which brought the whole history of Susan's lamb and of Attorney Case's cruelty to light.
The attorney himself was present when the harper began to dictate his ballad.
His colour, as Sir Arthur steadily looked at him, varied continually; till at length, when he heard the words " Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb," he suddenly shrunk back, skulked through the crowd, and disappeared.
We shall not follow him; we had rather follow our old friend, the victorious harper.
The boy ran with the letter to the post-office.
He was but just in time, for the postman's horn was sounding.
said Farmer Price; " here's the penny then, but who can it be from, I wonder?
Who can think of writing to me, in this world?
He tore open the letter; but the hard name at the bottom of the page puzzled him--" your obliged friend, Llewellyn.
said he, opening a paper that was inclosed in the letter.
Farmer Price sat down in his own chair, for he could not read entirely to his satisfaction in any other, and read as follows:--
I have won the ten guinea prize, and for that I am in a great measure indebted to your sweet daughter Susan; as you will see by a little ballad I inclose for her.
Your hospitality to me has afforded to me an opportunity of learning some of your family history.
You do not, I hope, forget that I was present when you were counting the treasure in Susan's little purse, and that I heard for what purpose it was all destined.
You have not, I know, yet made up the full sum for your substitute, John Simpson; therefore do me the favour to use the five guinea bank note which you will find within the ballad.
You shall not find me as hard a creditor as Attorney Case.
Pay me the money at your own convenience.
If it is never convenient to you to pay it, I shall never ask it.
I shall go my rounds again through this country, I believe, about this time next year, and will call to see how you do, and to play the new tune for Susan and the dear little boys.
I am not quite so poor as I appear to be.
But it is my humour to go about as I do.
I see more of the world under my tattered garb than, perhaps, I should ever see in a better dress.
There are many of my profession who are of the same mind as myself in this respect; and we are glad, when it lies in our way, to do any kindness to such a worthy family as yours- So, fare ye well.
Susan now, by her father's desire, opened the ballad.
He picked up the five guinea bank note, whilst she read, with surprise, " Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb.
Her mother leaned over her shoulder to read the words; but they were interrupted, before they had finished the first stanza, by another knock at the door.
It was not the postman with another letter.
It was Sir Arthur and his sisters.
They came with an intention, which they were much disappointed to find that the old harper had rendered vain-they came to lend the farmer and his good family the money to pay for his substitute.
Mr. Price, will you come out with me, and let me show you a piece of your land, through which I want to make a road.
Look there," said Sir Arthur, pointing to the spot, " I am laying out a ride round my estate, and that bit of land of yours stops me.
You are welcome to it; and I leave it to you to find me out another bit of land convenient to me that will be worth neither more nor less; or else to make up the value to me some way or other.
I need say no more about it.
I would not speak to you about it whilst we were bargaining about your land, lest I should over-awe you; but, tell me, what is this flaw?
Now, by reason a man does not make a mistake on purpose, it seems to me to be the fair thing, that if a man finds out his mistake, he might set it right; but Attorney Case says this is not law; and I've no more to say.
The man who drew up my lease made a mistake; and if I must suffer for it, I must," said the farmer.
You'll see, by that bit of paper, what was meant; but the attorney says, the paper's not worth a button in a court of justice, and I don't understand these things.
All I understand is the common honesty of the matter.
Now, would you tell me frankly what is the matter between --?
Now I told him my mind, that it belonged to the parish, and that I never would willingly give my consent to his cribbing it in that way.
When they got to the ground, Mr. Case, who saw them walking together, was in a hurry to join them, that he might put a stop to any explanations.
Explanations were things of which he had a great dread; but, fortunately, he was upon this occasion a little too late.
Let it belong to whom it will, I give it up to you.
This piece of ground belonged to the farm on the opposite side of the road, and it was cut off when the lane was made.
I daresay you are quite correct; you must know best," said the attorney, trembling for the agency.
Mr. Price bowed low, which he seldom did, even when he received a favour himself.
I hope I never shall take an unfair advantage of anyone.
I always understood that there could be nothing ungentlemanlike, in the way of business, in taking advantage of a flaw in a lease.
You intended to send me this poor man's lease; but your son, by some mistake, brought me your own, and I have discovered a fatal error in it.
said the alarmed attorney.
You will observe that it is neither signed nor sealed by the grantor.
said Mr. Case, forgetting his own principles.
In both cases I shall be guided by memoranda which I have in my possession.
I shall not, Mr. Case, defraud you of one shilling of your property.
I am ready, at a fair valuation, to pay the exact value of your house and land; but upon this condition-that you quit the parish within one month!
Attorney Case was thus compelled to submit to the hard necessity of the case, for he knew that he could not legally resist.
Indeed he was glad to be let off so easily; and he bowed and sneaked away, secretly comforting himself with the hope, that when they came to the valuation of the house and land he should be the gainer, perhaps of a few guineas.
His reputation he justly held very cheap.
said Sir Arthur to Mr. Price, as they walked home towards the cottage.
Did you teach her to write?
I want no agent to squeeze my tenants, or do my dirty work.
I only want a steady, intelligent, honest man, like you, to collect my rents, and I hope, Mr. Price, you will have no objection to the employment.
said Sir Arthur, entering the cottage, and going behind his sisters, who were busily engaged in measuring an extremely pretty coloured calico.
Susan gave it to her father; but she must not refuse a gown of our choosing this time; and I am sure she will not, because her mother, I see, likes it.
And, Susan, I hear that instead of becoming Queen of the May this year, you were sitting in your sick mother's room.
Your mother has a little colour in her cheeks now.
Joy, I think, has made me quite well.
Make haste and get quite well before that day; for my brother intends that all the lads and lassies of the village shall have a dance on Susan's birthday.
I shall tell them that it is your good conduct which has obtained it for them; and if you have anything to ask, any little favour for any of your companions, which we can grant, now ask, Susan.
These ladies look as if they would not refuse you anything that is reasonable; and, I think, you look as if you would not ask anything unreasonable.
Tell Rose to come to the Abbey, to-morrow morning, or, rather, come with her yourself; for our housekeeper, I know, wants to talk to you about a certain cake.
She wishes, Susan, that you should be the maker of the cake for the dance; and she has good things ready looked out for it already, I know.
It must be large enough for everybody to have a slice, and the housekeeper will ice it for you.
I only hope your cake will be as good as your bread.
How happy are those who bid farewell to a whole family, silent with gratitude, who will bless them aloud when they are far out of hearing!
It would do his old, warm heart good.
Well, the best of it is, we shall be able next year, when he comes his rounds, to pay him his money with thanks, being all the time, and for ever, as much obliged to him as if we kept it.
I long, so I do, to see him in this house again, drinking, as he did, just in this spot, a glass of Susan's mead, to her very good health.
for I have not finished it.
Susan found her friend Rose at the hawthorn, in the midst of a crowded circle of her companions, to whom she was reading " Susan's Lamentation for her Lamb.
The good news that Farmer Price was to be employed to collect the rents, and that Attorney Case was to leave the parish in a month, soon spread over the village.
Many came out of their houses to have the pleasure of hearing the joyful tidings confirmed by Susan herself.
The crowd on the play-green increased every minute.
Susan's too modest to say it herself; but I tell ye all, Sir Arthur gave us this play-green for ever, on account of her being so good.
You see, at last Attorney Case, with all his cunning has not proved a match for " Simple Susan.
The little town of Somerville, in Ireland, has, within these few years, assumed the neat and cheerful appearance of an English village.
Mr. Somerville, to whom this town belongs, wished to inspire his tenantry with a taste for order and domestic happiness, and took every means in his power to encourage industrious, well behaved people to settle in his neighbourhood.
When he had finished building a row of good slated houses in his town, he declared that he would let them to the best tenants he could find, and proposals were publicly sent to him from all parts of the country.
By the best tenants, Mr. Somerville did not, however, mean the best bidders; and many, who had offered an extravagant price for the houses, were surprised to find their proposals rejected.
Amongst these was Mr. Cox, an alehouse keeper, who did not bear a very good character.
Was not it fifteen guineas I mentioned in my proposal?
and did not your honour give it against me for thirteen?
I'm sure there is not a gentleman in all Ireland I'd go further to sarve.
Would not I go to Cork to-morrow for the least word from your honour?
I quarrel, please your honour!
I defy any man, or set of men, ten mile round, to prove such a thing, and I am ready to fight him that dares to say the like of me.
I'd fight him here in your honour's presence, if he'd only come out this minute, and meet me like a man.
Not a drop of whisky, good or bad, have I touched these six months, except what I took with Jemmy M'Doole the night I had the misfortune to meet your honour coming home from the fair of Ballynagrish.
To this speech Mr. Somerville made no answer, but turned away to look at the bow window of a handsome new inn, which the glazier was at this instant glazing.
cried Mr. Somerville, " for I had no thoughts of building an inn at that time.
I never thought of letting this inn to you.
I do not wish to have you for a tenant.
Mr. Somerville the next morning went with his family to look at the new inn, which he expected to see perfectly finished; but he was met by the carpenter, who, with a rueful face, informed him that six panes of glass in the large bow-window had been broken during the night.
perhaps Mr. Cox has broken my windows, in revenge for my refusing to let him my house," said Mr. Somerville; and many of the neighbours, who knew the malicious character of this Mr. Cox, observed that this was like one of his tricks.
A boy of about twelve years old, however, stepped forward and said, " I don't like Mr. Cox, I'm sure; for once he beat me when he was drunk; but, for all that, no one should be accused wrongfully.
He could not be the person that broke these windows last night, for he was six miles off.
He slept at his cousin's last night, and he has not returned home yet.
So I think he knows nothing of the matter.
Mr. Somerville was pleased with the honest simplicity of this boy, and observing that he looked in eagerly at the staircase, when the house door was opened, he asked him whether he would like to go in and see the new house.
said Mr. Somerville; and the boy ran up the stairs.
He went from room to room with great expressions of admiration and delight.
The carpenter was speaking to Mr. Somerville upon the landing-place of the stairs; but, the moment he spied the white pigeon, he broke off in the midst of a speech about THE NOSE of the stairs, and exclaimed, " There he is, please your honour!
There's he that has done all the damage to our bow-window-that's the very same wicked white pigeon that broke the church windows last Sunday was se'nnight; but he's down for it now; we have him safe, and I'll chop his head off, as he deserves, this minute.
don't chop his head off: he does not deserve it," cried the boy, who came running out of the garret with the greatest eagerness-" _I_ broke your window, sir," said he to Mr. Somerville.
Don't chop his head off," added the boy to the carpenter, who had now the white pigeon in his hands.
I am persuaded by your open, honest countenance, that you are speaking the truth; but pray explain this matter to us; for you have not made it quite clear.
How happened it that you could break my windows without knowing it?
and how came you to find it out at last?
Mr. Somerville followed the boy into the garret, who pointed to a pane of glass that was broken in a small window that looked out upon a piece of waste ground behind the house.
Upon this piece of waste ground the children of the village often used to play.
This I would not do; and when he began to wrestle with me for it, I threw the ball, as I thought, over the house.
Here's one of his white feathers sticking in the gap.
It was the pigeon broke THEM windows, sure enough.
The white pigeon belongs to a poor neighbour, a friend of ours, who is very fond of him, and I would not have him killed for twice as much money.
I forgive him all the mischief he has done me, tell your friend, for your sake.
As to the rest, we can have the windows mended; and do you keep all the sixpences you earn for yourself.
Happy for them to have such a son!
Good morning to you, sir; and thank you kindly," said he to Mr. Somerville.
They cannot live in town," said Mr. Somerville, " or I should have heard of them.
They were obliged to give up the land; and now they have furnished a little shop in this town with what goods they could afford to buy with the money they got by the sale of their cattle and stock.
They have the good-will of all who know them; and I am sure I hope they will do well.
The boy is very ready in the shop, though he said only that he could earn sixpence a day.
He writes a good hand, and is quick at casting up accounts, for his age.
Besides, he is likely to do well in the world, because he is never in idle company, and I've known him since he was two foot high, and never heard of his telling a lie.
Mr. Somerville resolved to inquire more fully concerning this poor family, and to attend to their conduct himself, fully determined to assist them if he should find them such as they had been represented.
In the meantime, this boy, whose name was Brian O'Neill, went to return the white pigeon to its owner.
Brian thanked her; and he from that day began to grow fond of the pigeon.
He always took care to scatter some oats for it in his father's yard; and the pigeon grew so tame at last that it would hop about the kitchen, and eat off the same trencher with the dog.
Brian, after the shop was shut up at night, used to amuse himself with reading some little books which the schoolmaster who formerly taught him arithmetic was so good as to lend him.
Amongst these he one evening met with a little book full of the history of birds and beasts; he looked immediately to see whether the pigeon was mentioned amongst the birds, and, to his great joy, he found a full description and history of his favourite bird.
If other pigeons have done so before him, I think he is as good, and, I daresay, will be as easy to teach as any pigeon in the world.
The pigeon carried his message well; and Brian was much delighted with his success.
He soon was employed by the neighbours, who were aroused by Brian's fondness of his swift messenger; and soon the fame of the white pigeon was spread amongst all who frequented the markets and fairs of Somerville.
At one of these fairs a set of men of desperate fortunes met to drink, and to concert plans of robberies.
Their place of meeting was at the ale-house of Mr. Cox, the man who, as our readers may remember, was offended by Mr. Somerville's hinting that he was fond of drinking and of quarrelling, and who threatened vengeance for having been refused the new inn.
Whilst these men were talking over their scheme, one of them observed, that one of their companions was not arrived.
This turned the discourse upon the difficulties of sending messages secretly and quickly.
Cox's son, a lad of about nineteen, who was one of this gang, mentioned the white carrier-pigeon, and he was desired to try all means to get it into his possession.
Accordingly, the next day young Cox went to Brian O'Neill, and tried, at first by persuasion and afterwards by threats, to prevail upon him to give up the pigeon.
Brian was resolute in his refusal, more especially when the petitioner began to bully him.
Brian searched for it in vain-inquired from all the neighbours if they had seen it, and applied, but to no purpose, to Cox.
He swore that he knew nothing about the matter.
But this was false, for it was he who during the night-time had stolen the white pigeon.
He conveyed it to his employers, and they rejoiced that they had gotten it into their possession, as they thought it would serve them for a useful messenger.
Nothing can be more shortsighted than cunning.
The very means which these people took to secure secrecy were the means of bringing their plots to light.
The pigeon, however, had a better memory than they imagined.
They loosed him from a bag near the town of Ballynagrish in hopes that he would stop at the house of Cox's cousin, which was on its road between Ballynagrish and Somerville.
But the pigeon, though he had been purposely fed at this house for a week before this trial, did not stop there, but flew on to his old master's house in Somerville, and pecked at the kitchen window, as he had formerly been taught to do.
His father, fortunately, was within hearing, and poor Brian ran with the greatest joy to open the window and to let him in.
At this instant the pigeon spread his wings, and Brian discovered under one of its wings a small and very dirty looking billet.
He opened it in his father's presence.
The scrawl was scarcely legible; but these words were at length deciphered:--
We meat at tin this nite at my faders, and have harms and all in radiness to brak into the grate'ouse.
Mr. Summervill is to lye out to nite-kip the pigeon untill to-morrow.
For ever yours, MURTAGH COX, JUN.
Scarcely had they finished reading this note, than both father and son exclaimed, " Let us go and show it to Mr.
Before they set out, they had, however, the prudence to secure the pigeon, so that he should not be seen by anyone but themselves.
Mr. Somerville, in consequence of this fortunate discovery, took proper measures for the apprehension of the eight men who had sworn to rob his house.
I don't want to be paid for doing it.
Will you, my good lad," continued Mr. Somerville, after a moment's pause --" will you trust me with your pigeon a few days?
A few days afterwards, Mr. Somerville called at O'Neill's house, and bid him and his son follow him.
They followed till he stopped opposite to the bow-window of the new inn.
The carpenter had just put up a sign, which was covered over with a bit of carpeting.
said Mr. Somerville to Brian, " and pull that sign straight, for it hangs quite crooked.
There, now it is straight.
Now pull off the carpet, and let us see the new sign.
The boy pulled off the cover, and saw a white pigeon painted upon the sign, and the name of O'Neill in large letters underneath.
And I wish him joy of having such a son as you are.
Those who bring up their children well, will certainly be rewarded for it, be they poor or rich.
don't you remember it's the 22nd of December; and her birthday is the day after to-morrow?
But you never remember about birthdays, mamma.
That was just what I was thinking of, that you never remember my sister Laura's birthday, or-or-or MINE, mamma.
I remember your birthday perfectly well.
but you never KEEP it, though.
In the first place, there is a great dinner.
But Bell has a great many nice things-I don't mean nice eatable things, but nice new playthings, given to her always on her birthday; and everybody drinks her health, and she's so happy.
Is it everybody's drinking her health that makes her so happy?
or the new playthings, or the nice mince pies?
I can easily believe that she is happy whilst she is eating a mince pie, or whilst she is playing; but how does everybody's drinking her health at dinner make her happy?
Rosamond paused, and then said she did not know.
Do you like them only because they are NEW?
Now you shall be judge, mamma; I'll tell you all that was in the drawer.
I want you to judge very much, because I am sure I was in the right.
And, mother," added Rosamond, stopping her as she was going out of the room, " will you-not now, but when you've time-will you tell me why you never keep my birthday-why you never make any difference between that day and any other day?
Rosamond thought, but she could not find out any reason; besides, she suddenly recollected that she had not time to think any longer; for there was a certain work-basket to be finished, which she was making for her cousin Bell, as a present upon her birthday.
The work was at a stand for want of some filigree-paper, and, as her mother was going out, she asked her to take her with her, that she might buy some.
Her sister Laura went with them.
you will keep it for ever in your pocket.
You know, my godmother when she gave it to you, said you would keep it longer than I should keep mine; and I know what she thought by her look at the time.
I heard her say something to my mother.
She said I was a little miser.
and she'll see that she was not mistaken.
I hope she'll be by when I give my basket to Bell-won't it be beautiful?
There is to be a wreath of myrtle, you know, round the handle, and a frost ground, and then the medallions --
Now it happened that the shop was the corner house of a street, and one of the windows looked out into a narrow lane.
A coach full of ladies stopped at the door, just before they went in, so that no one had time immediately to think of Rosamond and her filigree-paper, and she went to the window where she saw her sister Laura looking earnestly at something that was passing in the lane.
Opposite to the window, at the door of a poor-looking house, there was sitting a little girl weaving lace.
Her bobbins moved as quick as lightning, and she never once looked up from her work.
said Laura; " and very honest, too?
added she in a minute afterwards; for just then a baker with a basket of rolls on his head passed, and by accident one of the rolls fell close to the little girl.
She took it up eagerly, looked at it as if she was very hungry, then put aside her work, and ran after the baker to return it to him.
Whilst she was gone, a footman in a livery, laced with silver, who belonged to the coach that stood at the shop door, as he was lounging with one of his companions, chanced to spy the weaving pillow, which she had left upon a stone before the door.
To divert himself (for idle people do mischief often to divert themselves) he took up the pillow, and entangled all the bobbins.
The little girl came back out of breath to her work; but what was her surprise and sorrow to find it spoiled.
She twisted and untwisted, placed and replaced, the bobbins, while the footman stood laughing at her distress.
She got up gently, and was retiring into the house, when the silver laced footman stopped her, saying, insolently, " Sit still, child.
said the brutal footman, snatching her weaving-pillow again, " I'll teach you to complain of me.
And he broke off, one after another, all the bobbins, put them into his pocket, rolled her weaving-pillow down the dirty lane, then jumped up behind his mistress'coach, and was out of sight in an instant.
exclaimed Rosamond, no longer able to restrain her indignation at this injustice; " poor little girl!
At this instant her mother said to Rosamond --" Come, now, my dear, if you want this filigree paper, buy it.
All her feelings of pity were immediately suppressed.
Satisfied with bestowing another exclamation upon the " Poor little girl!
she went to spend her half-guinea upon her filigree basket.
In the meantime, she that was called the " little miser " beckoned to the poor girl, and, opening the window, said, pointing to the cushion, " Is it quite spoiled?
and I can't, nor mother neither, buy another; and I can't do anything else for my bread.
A few, but very few, tears fell as she said this.
said Laura, holding up her half-guinea.
Late on the morning of her cousin's birthday, Rosamond finished her work-basket.
As the carriage went on, Rosamond pulled the paper to one side and to the other, and by each of the four corners.
He took hold of the handle rather roughly; when, starting off the coach seat, she cried, " Oh, sir!
you will spoil it indeed!
said she, with increased vehemence, when, after drawing aside the veil of silver paper, she saw him grasp the myrtle wreathed handle.
And pray," continued he, turning the basket round with his finger and thumb, rather in a disrespectful manner, " pray, is this the thing you have been about all this week?
I have seen you all this week dabbling with paste and rags; I could not conceive what you were about.
You think, then, that I have wasted my time, because the basket is of no use; but then it is a present for my Cousin Bell.
You had better have given her the purple jar.
I thought you had forgotten that-it was two years ago; I'm not so silly now.
But Bell will like the basket, I know, though it is of no use.
said Rosamond, hesitating, " I don't think I am VERY fond of her.
And will you, or can you, or should you, always give, merely because others EXPECT, or because somebody else gives?
Rosamond, laughing: " Now you are making a joke of me, papa, I see; but I thought you liked that people should be generous- my godmother said that she did.
Rosamond looked down upon the basket, and was silent.
said she looking up at last.
If you have sense enough to see your own mistakes, and can afterwards avoid them, you will never be a fool.
Here the carriage stopped, and Rosamond recollected that the basket was uncovered.
Now we must observe, that Rosamond's father had not been too severe upon Bell when he called her a silly girl.
From her infancy she had been humoured; and at eight years old she had the misfortune to be a spoiled child.
She was idle, fretful, and selfish; so that nothing could make her happy.
On her birthday she expected, however, to be perfectly happy.
Everybody in the house tried to please her, and they succeeded so well, that between breakfast and dinner she had only six fits of crying.
Here's a frock fit for a queen-if it had but lace round the cuffs.
and didn't they know it was my birthday?
But then I say I won't wear it without the lace-I can't wear it without the lace, and I won't.
The lace, however, could not be had; and Bell at length submitted to let the frock be put on.
said the child, pouting and sobbing.
So I'll hold my tongue, miss.
repeated Bell, impatiently; " I can't wait till then; I must see it this minute.
The maid refused her several times, till Bell burst into another fit of crying, and the maid, fearing that her mistress would be angry with HER, if Bell's eyes were red at dinner time, consented to show her the basket.
exclaimed the spoiled child, who never considered anything but her own immediate gratification --" Become of YOU, indeed!
what signifies that-I sha'n't spoil it; and I will have it in my own hands.
If you don't hold it down for me directly, I'll tell that you showed it to me.
She snatched the basket the moment it was within her reach.
A struggle ensued, in which the handle and lid were torn off, and one of the medallions crushed inwards, before the little fury returned to her senses.
Calmed at this sight, the next question was, how she should conceal the mischief which she had done.
After many attempts, the handle and lid were replaced; the basket was put exactly in the same spot in which it had stood before, and the maid charged the child, " TO LOOK AS IF NOTHING WAS THE MATTER.
We hope that both children and parents will here pause for a moment to reflect.
The habits of tyranny, meanness, and falsehood, which children acquire from living with bad servants, are scarcely ever conquered in the whole course of their future lives.
After shutting up the basket they left the room, and in the adjoining passage they found a poor girl waiting with a small parcel in her hand.
said Bell; " and pray why didn't you bring it sooner?
The girl was going to answer, but the maid interrupted her, saying --" Come, come, none of your excuses; you are a little idle, good-for-nothing thing, to disappoint Miss Bell upon her birthday.
But now you have brought it, let us look at it!
The little girl gave the lace without reply, and the maid desired her to go about her business, and not to expect to be paid; for that her mistress could not see anybody, BECAUSE she was in a room full of company.
replied the maid, " what makes people so poor, I WONDERS!
I wish mistress would buy her lace at the warehouse, as I told her, and not of these folks.
I believe you'd call, call, call twenty times for twopence.
However ungraciously the permission to call again was granted, it was received with gratitude.
The little girl departed with a cheerful countenance; and Bell teazed her maid till she got her to sew the long wished-for lace upon her cuffs.
Unfortunate Bell- All dinner time passed, and people were so hungry, so busy, or so stupid, that not an eye observed her favourite piece of finery.
Till at length she was no longer able to conceal her impatience, and turning to Laura, who sat next to her, she said, " You have no lace upon your cuffs.
Look how beautiful mine is- is not it?
Don't you wish your mamma could afford to give some like it?
But you can't get any if she would, for this was made on purpose for me on my birthday, and nobody can get a bit more anywhere, if they would give the world for it.
cried Bell; for she had already learned, either from her maid or her mother, the mean pride which values things not for being really pretty or useful, but for being such as nobody else can procure.
Mamma won't let her, if I ask her not.
Laura received this declaration in silence-Rosamond smiled; and at her smile the ill-suppressed rage of the spoiled child burst forth into the seventh and loudest fit of crying which had yet been heard on her birthday.
cried her mother; " come to me, and tell me what's the matter.
Bell ran roaring to her mother; but no otherwise explained the cause of her sorrow than by tearing the fine lace with frantic gestures from her cuffs, and throwing the fragments into her mother's lap.
the lace, child- are you mad?
said her mother, catching hold of both her hands.
Who has put it into your head, child, to dislike it?
don't POINT," said her mother, putting down her stubborn finger; " nor say THEM, like Nancy; I am sure you misunderstood.
Miss Laura, I am sure, did not mean any such thing.
cried Rosamond, warmly, rising in her sister's defence.
No defence or explanation, however, was to be heard, for everybody had now gathered round Bell, to dry her tears, and to comfort her for the mischief she had done to her own cuffs.
Rosamond, followed by all the company, amongst whom, to her great joy, was her godmother, proceeded to the dressing room.
The doors of the wardrobe were opened with due ceremony, and the filigree basket appeared in all its glory.
said the godmother, who was one of the company; " MY Rosamond knows how to make presents.
And as she spoke, she took hold of the basket, to lift it down to the admiring audience.
Scarcely had she touched it, when, lo!
the basket fell to the ground, and only the handle remained in her hand.
All eyes were fixed upon the wreck.
Exclamations of sorrow were heard in various tones; and " Who can have done this?
was all that Rosamond could say.
Bell stood in sullen silence, which she obstinately preserved in the midst of the inquiries that were made about the disaster.
At length the servants were summoned, and amongst them, Nancy, Miss Bell's maid and governess.
Bell, putting on the deceitful look which her maid had taught her, answered boldly, " NO;" but she had hold of Rosamond's hand, and at the instant she uttered this falsehood she squeezed it terribly.
said Rosamond, in a low voice; " what are you afraid of?
cried Bell, turning angrily; " I'm not afraid of anything- I've nothing to be afraid about.
cried Bell, furiously; " Mamma, mamma!
my cousin Rosamond won't believe me!
It's very rude, and I won't bear it-I won't.
Don't cry, love; nobody suspected you.
But you know," continued she, turning to the maid, " somebody must have done this, and I must know how it was done.
Miss Rosamond's charming present must not be spoiled in this way, in my house, without my taking proper notice of it.
I assure you I am very angry about it, Rosamond.
Rosamond did not rejoice in her anger, and had nearly made a sad mistake by speaking aloud her thoughts --" I WAS VERY FOOLISH --" she began and stopped.
I'm sure she must have done it; for here she was by herself half an hour or more, and not another creature has been in mistress'dressing-room, to my certain knowledge, since morning.
Those sort of people have so much curiosity.
I'm sure she must have been meddling with it," added the maid.
It was the little girl, who came to be paid for her lace.
The maid, who was afraid that the girl's innocence would appear if she were produced, hesitated; but upon her mistress repeating her commands, she was forced to obey.
The girl came in with a look of simplicity; but when she saw a room full of company she was a little abashed.
Rosamond and Laura looked at her and one another with surprise, for it was the same little girl whom they had seen weaving lace.
whispered Rosamond to her sister.
Don't say a word, let us hear what she will say.
Laura got behind the rest of the company as she spoke, so that the little girl could not see her.
said Bell's mother; " I am waiting to see how long you will have the assurance to stand there with that innocent look.
Did you ever see that basket before?
cried the maid; " and what else do you know about it?
You had better confess it at once, and mistress, perhaps, will say no more about it.
said the little girl; " I never touched the basket, madam.
And, pray, how came you to see it?
You must have opened my wardrobe.
The maid, frightened, pulled the little girl by the sleeve.
Everybody else, however, did believe; and their eyes were fixed upon Bell in a manner which made her feel rather ashamed.
And am I to be put to shame on my birthday?
cried she, bursting into a roar of passion; " and all for this nasty thing!
added she, pushing away the remains of the basket, and looking angrily at Rosamond.
fie- Now I am ashamed of you; that's quite rude to your cousin," said her mother, who was more shocked at her daughter's want of politeness than at her falsehood.
Rosamond, during this scene, especially at the moment when her present was pushed away with such disdain, had been making reflections upon the nature of true generosity.
You know I prophesied that your half-guinea would be gone the soonest.
said she, appealing, in a sarcastic tone, to where she thought Laura was.
Your half-guinea, I'll answer for it, is snug in your pocket-Is it not?
But low as the voice of Laura was, the poor little lace-girl heard it; and now, for the first time, fixing her eyes upon Laura, recollected her benefactress.
she exclaimed, in a tone of joyful gratitude, " the good, good young lady, who gave me the half-guinea, and would not stay to be thanked for it; but I WILL thank her now.
RESPECT is not an improper word, even applied to a child of Laura's age; for let the age or situation of the person be what it may, they command respect who deserve it.
said Rosamond to her godmother, " now you see-you see she is NOT a little miser.
I'm sure that's better than wasting half a guinea upon a filigree basket; is it not, ma'am?
said she, with an eagerness which showed that she had forgotten all her own misfortunes in sympathy with her sister.
It is not only by giving away money that we can show generosity; it is by giving up to others anything that we like ourselves: and therefore," added he, smiling, " it is really generous of you to give your sister the thing you like best of all others.
You don't mean PRAISE, do you, sir?
A collection, called Salt, is taken from the public, which forms a purse, to support the Captain of the School in his studies at Cambridge.
This collection is made by the Scholars, dressed in fancy dresses, all round the country.
Among the former, Lady Lade was foremost in the throng; only two others dared venture their persons on horseback in such a multitude.
The King and his attendants weathered it out in their great-coats.
Snow, milliner, of Windsor:--
About six in the evening all the boys returned in the order of procession, and, marching round the great square of Eton, were dismissed.
The captain then paid his respects to the Royal Family, at the Queen's Lodge, Windsor, previously to his departure for King's College, Cambridge, to defray which expense the produce of the Montem was presented to him.
The Etonians, in order to secure the ram, houghed him in the Irish fashion, and then attacked him with great clubs.
The cruelty of this proceeding brought it into disuse, and now it exists no longer- See Register of the Royal Abbey of Bec, folio 58.
Alderman Bursal, Father of young Bursal.
Lord John,) Talbot,) Wheeler,) Young Gentlemen of Eton, from 17 to 19 years of age.
Mr. Newington, Landlord of the Inn at Salt Hill.
A Waiter and crowd of Eton Lads.
The Marchioness of Piercefield, Mother of Lord John.
Lady Violetta-her Daughter, a Child of six or seven years old.
Lousia Talbot, her Daughter.
Miss Bursal, Daughter to the Alderman.
Mrs. Newington, Landlady of the Inn at Salt Hill.
Pipe and Tabor, and Dance of Peasants.
The Bar of the " Windmill Inn " at Salt Hill.
MR. and MRS. NEWINGTON, the Landlord and Landlady.
Say no more about it;'tis an unpossibility in the natur of things.
And pray, do you take your great old fashioned tankard, Mr. Newington, from among my jellies and confectioneries.
Landlord (takes his tankard and drinks).
Anything for a quiet life.
If it is an impossibility, I've no more to say; only, for the soul of me, I can't see the great unpossibility, wife.
Wife, indeed- wife- wife!
Why, what a plague would you have me call you?
The other day you quarrelled with me for calling you Mrs. Landlady.
To be sure I did, and very proper in me I should.
I've turned off three waiters and five chambermaids already, for screaming after me Mrs. Landlady!
But'tis all your ill manners.
Why, if I may be so bold, if you are not Mrs. Landlady, in the name of wonder what are you?
Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington.
Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington drinks your health; for I suppose I must not be landlord any more in my own house (shrugs).
Oh, as to that, I have no objections nor impediments to your being called LANDLORD.
You look it, and become it very proper.
Why, yes, indeed, thank my tankard, I do look it, and become it, and am nowise ashamed of it; but everyone to their mind, as you, wife, don't fancy the being called Mrs. Landlady.
Why, when folks hear the old fashioned cry of Mrs. Landlady!
who do they expect, think you, to see, but an overgrown, fat, featherbed of a woman, coming waddling along with her thumbs sticking on each side of her apron, o'this fashion?
Now, to see me coming, nobody would take me to be a landlady.
Very true, indeed, wife-Mrs. Newington, I mean-I ask pardon; but now to go on with what we were saying about the unpossibility of letting that old lady, and the civil-spoken young lady there above, have them there rooms for another day.
Now, Mr. Newington, let me hear no more about that old gentlewoman, and that civil-spoken young lady.
Fair words cost nothing; and I've a notion that's the cause they are so plenty with the young lady.
Neither o'them, I take it, by what they've ordered since their coming into the house, are such grand folk, that one need be so petticular about them.
Why, they came only in a chaise and pair, to be sure; I can't deny that.
Nay, what do I talk of to-morrow?
isn't my Lady Piercefield and suite expected?
and, moreover, Mr. and Miss Bursal's to be here, and will call for as much in an hour as your civil-spoken young lady in a twelvemonth, I reckon.
So, Mr. Newington, if you don't think proper to go up and inform the ladies above, that the Dolphin rooms are not for them, I must SPEAK myself, though'tis a thing I never do when I can help it.
My dear, you can speak a power better than I can; so take it all upon yourself, if you please; for, old-fashioned as I and my tankard here be, I can't make a speech that borders on the uncivil order, to a lady like, for the life and lungs of me.
So, in the name of goodness, do you go up, Mrs. Newington.
And so I will, Mr. Newington.
Civilities and rarities are out o'season for them that can't pay for them in this world; and very proper.
A fine day, Mr. Newington.
And I hope, for YOUR sake, we may have as fine a day for the Montem to-morrow.
It will be a pretty penny in your pocket!
Why, all the world will be here; and (looking round at the jellies, etc.)
so much the better for them; for here are good things enough, and enough for them.
And here's the best thing of all, the good old tankard still; not empty, I hope.
Here's to you, Mr. Wheeler.
Wheeler- CAPTAIN Wheeler, if you please.
Why, I thought in former times it was always the oldest scholar at Eton that was Captain at the Montems; and didn't Mr. Talbot come afore you?
Not at all; we came on the same day.
Some say I came first; some say Talbot.
So the choice of which of us is to be captain is to be put to the vote amongst the lads-most votes carry it; and I have most votes, I fancy; so I shall be captain, to-morrow, and a pretty deal of salt * I reckon I shall pocket.
Why, the collection at the last Montem, they say, came to a plump thousand!
No bad thing for a young fellow to set out with for Oxford or Cambridge-hey?
And no bad thing, before he sets out for Cambridge or Oxford,'twould be for a young gentleman to pay his debts.
Oh, time enough for that.
I've a little account with you in horses, I know; but that's between you and me, you know-mum.
Mum me no mums, Mr. Wheeler.
Between you and me, my best hunter has been ruinationed; and I can't afford to be mum.
So you'll take no offence if I speak; and as you'll set off to-morrow, as soon as the Montem's over, you'll be pleased to settle with me some way or other to-day, as we've no other time.
No time so proper, certainly.
Where's the little account?I have money sent me for my Montem dress, and I can squeeze that much out of it.
I came home from Eton on purpose to settle with you.
But as to the hunter, you must call upon Talbot-do you understand?
to pay for him; for though Talbot and I had him the same day,'twas Talbot did for him, and Talbot must pay.
I spoke to him about it, and charged him to remember you; for I never forget to speak a good word for my friends.
I'll make bold just to give you my opinion of these jellies whilst you are getting my account, Mr. Newington.
where are making off so fast?
Here, your jellies are all going as fast as yourself.
Talbot- I wish I was a hundred miles off.
You are heartily welcome, Mr. Talbot.
A good morning to you, sir; I'm glad to see you-very glad to see you, Mr. Talbot.
Then shake hands, my honest landlord.
The hunter, you know; since Wheeler won't pay, I must-that's all.
Hold, Mr. Talbot, this won't do!
Well, then, my watch must go.
but you are in such a hurry to pay-you won't hear a man.
Half this is enough for your share o'the mischief, in all conscience.
Mr. Wheeler, there, had the horse on the same day.
But Bursal's my witness --
Oh, say no more about witnesses; a man's conscience is always his best witness, or his worst.
Landlord, take your money, and no more words.
This is very genteel of you, Talbot.
I always thought you would do the genteel thing as I knew you to be so generous and considerate.
Don't waste your fine speeches, Wheeler, I advise you, this election time.
Keep them for Bursal or Lord John, or some of those who like them.
They won't go down with me.
I give you notice, I'm going back to Eton as fast as I can gallop; and who knows what plain speaking may do with the Eton lads?
I may be captain yet, Wheeler.
Mr. Talbot's horse, there!
Mr. Talbot's horse, I say.
A horse for me, pray; a horse for Mr. Wheeler!
Landlord (calls very loud).
A Dining room in the Inn at Salt Hill.
With what an air Mrs. Landlady made her exit!
When I was young, they say, I was proud; but I am humble enough now: these petty mortifications do not vex me.
It is well my brother was gone before Mrs. Landlady made her entree; for if he had heard her rude speech, he would at least have given her the retort courteous.
Now tell me honestly, my Louisa-You were, a few days ago, at Bursal House.
Since you have left it and have felt something of the difference that is made in this world between splendour and no splendour, you have never regretted that you did not stay there, and that you did not bear more patiently with Miss Bursal's little airs?
At first Miss Bursal paid me a vast deal of attention; but, for what reason I know not, she suddenly changed her manner, grew first strangely cold, then condescendingly familiar, and at last downright rude.
I could not guess the cause of these variations.
But as I perceived the lady was out of tune, I was in haste to leave her.
I should make a very bad, and, I am sure, a miserable toad eater.
I had much rather, if I were obliged to choose, earn my own bread, than live as toad eater with anybody.
Fine talking, dear Louisa!
Don't you believe me to be in earnest, mother!
To be sure, you cannot know what I would do, unless I were put to the trial.
Louisa (takes her mother's hand).
What is the matter, dear mother?
You used to say, that seeing my brother always made you feel ten years younger; yet even while he was here, you had, in spite of all your efforts to conceal them, those sudden fits of sadness.
The Montem-is not it to-morrow?
Ay, but my boy is not sure of being captain.
No; there is one Wheeler, who, as he says, is most likely to be chosen captain.
He has taken prodigious pains to flatter and win over many to his interest.
My brother does not so much care about it; he is not avaricious.
I love your generous spirit and his!
my dear, people may live to want, and wish for money, without being avaricious.
I would not say a word to Talbot; full of spirits as he was this morning, I would not say a word to him, till after the Montem, of what has happened.
And what has happened, dear mother?
A messenger brought me that from town a few hours ago.
I hope there is something left for you to live upon.
About 15O pounds a year for us all.
That is enough, is it not, for YOU?
I am an old woman, and want but little in this world, and shall be soon out of it.
Louisa (kneels down beside her).
Do not speak so, dearest mother.
Yes, enough, and too much for me.
I am not thinking of myself.
Then, as to my brother, he has such abilities, and such industry, he will make a fortune at the bar for himself, most certainly.
But his education is not completed.
How shall we provide him with money at Cambridge?
The last time the captain had eight hundred, the time before a thousand, pounds.
Now, indeed, I know that, without being avaricious, we may want, and wish for money.
Waiter- Miss Bursal's curricle, and Mr. Bursal's vis-a-vis.
see that the Dolphin's empty.
I will rest for a few moments upon the sofa, in this bedchamber, before we set off.
Louisa (goes to open the door).
They have bolted or locked it.
Ladies, I'm sorry-Miss Bursal and Mr. Bursal are come-just coming upstairs.
Then, will you be so good, sir, as to unlock this door?
It must be bolted on the inside.
Mr. Bursal's voice behind the scenes.
Let me have a basin of good soup directly.
I'll go round and have the door unbolted immediately, ladies.
Enter MISS BURSAL, in a riding dress, and with a long whip.
Those creatures, the ponies, have a'most pulled my'and off.
I'm so vastly glad to see you; but I'm so shocked to'ear of the loss of the Bombay Castle.
Mrs. Talbot, you look but poorly; but this Montem will put everybody in spirits.
I'ear everybody's to be'ere; and my brother tells me,'twill be the finest ever seen at HEton.
Louisa, my dear, I'm sorry I've not a seat for you in my curricle for to-morrow; but I've promised Lady Betty; so, you know,'tis impossible for me.
Certainly; and it would be impossible for me to leave my mother at present.
Chambermaid (opens the bedchamber door).
The room's ready now, ladies.
Miss Bursal, we intrude upon you no longer.
Nay, why do you decamp, Mrs. Talbot?
I'ad a thousand things to say to you, Louisa; but am so tired and so annoyed --
Exeunt Mrs. Talbot, Louisa and Chambermaid.)
Enter MR. BURSAL, with a basin of soup in his hand.
Well, thank my stars the Airly Castle is safe in the Downs.
Mr. Bursal, can you inform me why Joe, my groom, does not make his appearance?
Yes, that I can, child; because he is with his'orses, where he ought to be.
In style, to be sure; for all the world's to be here-the King, the Prince of WHales, and Duke o'York, and all the first people; and we shall cut a dash!
will be the word to-morrow- (playing with her whip).
ay, just like her brother.
He'll pay away finely, I warrant, by the time he's her age.
Well, well, he can afford it; and I do love to see my children make a figure for their money.
As Jack Bursal says, what's money for, if it e'nt to make a figure.
There's your, brother Jack, now.
he'll have such a dress as never was seen, I suppose, at this here Montem.
Why, now, Jack Bursal spends more money at Eton, and has more to spend, than my Lord John, though my Lord John's the son of a marchioness.
Oh, that makes no difference nowadays.
I wonder whether her ladyship is to be at this Montem.
The only good I ever got out of these stupid Talbots was an introduction to their friend Lady Piercefield.
What she could find to like in the Talbots, heaven knows.
I've a notion she'll drop them, when she hears of the loss of the Bombay Castle.
Enter a WAITER, with a note.
A note from my Lady Piercefield, sir.
Well, Mr. Bursal, what is it?
what can it be?--(going).
Perhaps some match to propose for me!
Mr. Bursal, pray before you go to her ladyship, do send my OOMAN to me to make me presentable.
I'm glad I'm prepared with a good basin of soup.
There's no doing business well upon an empty stomach.
Perhaps the business is to lend cash; and I've no great stomach for that.
But it will be an honour, to be sure.
LANDLADY-MR. FINSBURY, a man-milliner, with bandboxes-a fancy cap, or helmet, with feathers, in the Landlady's hand-a satin bag, covered with gold netting, in the man-milliner's hand-a mantle hanging over his arm.
A rough looking Farmer is sitting with his back towards them, eating bread and cheese, and reading a newspaper.
Well, this, to be sure, will be the best dressed Montem that ever was seen at Eton; and you Lon'on gentlemen have the most fashionablest notions; and this is the most elegantest fancy cap --
Why, as you observe, ma'm, that is the most elegant fancy cap of them all.
That is Mr. Hector Hogmorton's fancy cap, ma'm; and here, ma'm, is Mr. Saul's rich satin bag, covered with gold net.
He is college salt bearer, I understand, and has a prodigious superb white and gold dress.
But, in my humble opinion, ma'm, the marshal's white and purple and orange fancy dress, trimmed with silver, will bear the bell; though, indeed, I shouldn't say that- for the colonel's and lieutenant's, and ensign's, are beautiful in the extreme.
And, to be sure, nothing could be better imagined than Mr. Marlborough's lilac and silver, with a Roman cap.
And it must be allowed that nothing in nature can have a better effect than Mr. Drake's flesh-colour and blue, with this Spanish hat, ma'm, you see.
Farmer (reads the newspaper).
O gemini: Mr. Drake's Spanish hat is the sweetest, tastiest thing!
Mr. Finsbury, I protest --
Why, ma'm, I knew a lady of your taste couldn't but approve of it.
My own invention entirely, ma'm.
But it's nothing to the captain's cap, ma'm.
Indeed, ma'm, Mr. Wheeler, the captain that is to be, has the prettiest taste in dress.
Farmer (to the Landlady).
Why, now, pray, Mrs. Landlady, how long may it have been the fashion for milliners to go about in men's clothes?
Landlady (aside to Farmer).
This is Mr. Finsbury, the great man-milliner.
This is a sight I never thought to see in Old England.
Well, ma'm, I'm glad I have your approbation.
It has ever been my study to please the ladies.
And is this the way to please the ladies, Mrs. Landlady, nowadays?
Sir, with your leave-I ask pardon-but the least thing detriments these tender colours; and as you have just been eating cheese with your hands --
I ask pardon-man-milliner, I mean.
I ask pardon-Mrs. Newington, I mean.
Do you know who them ladies are that you have been and turned out of the Dolphin?
Why, if they are quality it's no fault of mine.
It is their own fault for coming, like scrubs, without four horses.
Why, if quality will travel the road this way, incognito, how can they expect to be known and treated as quality?
Why didn't you find out sooner who they were, Mr. Newington?
What else, in the'versal world have you to do, but to go basking about in the yards and places with your tankard in your hand, from morning till night?
What have you else to ruminate, all day long, but to find out who's who, I say?
like my mill in a high wind, landlord.
clapper- enough to stun a body.
That is not used to it; but use is all, they say.
Will you answer me, Mr. Newington?
Who are the grandees that were in the Dolphin?and what's become on them?
Grandees was your own word, wife.
They be not to call grandees; but I reckon you'd be sorry not to treat'em civil, when I tell you their name is Talbot, mother and sister to our young Talbot, of Eton; he that paid me so handsome for the hunter this very morning.
What a combustion for nothing in life!
For nothing in life, as you say, ma'm; that is, nothing in high life, I'm sure, ma'm; nay, I dare a'most venture to swear.
Would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is one of the few young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke from me a fancy dress for this grand Montem?
There, Mr. Newington; there's your Talbot for you!
and there's your grandees!
O trust me, I know your scrubs at first sight.
Scrubs, I don't, nor can't, nor won't call them that pay their debts honestly.
Scrubs, I don't, nor won't, nor can't, call them that behave as handsome as young Mr. Talbot did here to me this morning about the hunter.
Fancy-dress or no fancy-dress, Mr. Finsbury, this young gentleman is no scrub.
No matter, certainly; and yet it is a matter; for I'm confident I wouldn't for the world leave it in anyone's power to say that I said-that I called-any young gentleman of Eton a SCRUB!
Why, you know, sir, it might breed a riot!
And a pretty figure you'd make in a riot!
Pray let me hear nothing about riots in my house.
But I beg leave to explain, gentlemen.
All I ventured to remark or suggest was, that as there was some talk of Mr. Talbot's being captain to-morrow, I didn't conceive how he could well appear without any dress.
That was all, upon my word and honour.
A good morning to you, gentlemen; it is time for me to be off.
Mrs. Newington, you were so obliging as to promise to accommodate me with a return chaise as far as Eton.
A good day to you and your bandboxes.
There's a fellow for you now!
ha- A man-milliner, forsooth!
Mrs. Talbot's coming-stand back.
why does Bob show them through this way?
Enter MRS. TALBOT, leaning on LOUISA; Waiter showing the way.
You are going on, I suppose, ma'am?
Waiter (aside to Landlord).
Not if she could help it; but there's no beds, since Mr. Bursal and Miss Bursal's come.
I say nothing, for it is vain to say more.
But isn't it a pity she can't stay for the Montem, poor old lady!
Her son-as good and fine a lad as ever you saw-they say, has a chance, too, of being captain.
She may never live to see another such a sight.
No offence, madam, I hope; but I have a good snug farm house, not far off hand; and if so be you'd be so good to take a night's lodging, you and the young lady with you, you'd have a hearty welcome.
That's all I can say and you'd make my wife very happy; for she's a good woman, to say nothing of myself.
If I may be so bold to put in my word, madam, you'd have as good beds, and be as well lodged, with Farmer Hearty, as in e'er a house at Salt Hill.
I am very much obliged --
O, say nothing o'that, madam.
I am sure I shall be as much obliged if you do come.
drive the chaise up here to the door, smart, close.
Lean on my arm, madam, and we'll have you in and home in a whiff.
What a noise and a rout this farmer man makes!
and my husband, with his great broad face, bowing, as great a nincompoop as t'other.
The folks are all bewitched with the old woman, I verily believe.
A good morning to you, ladies.
A field near Eton College- several boys crossing backwards and forwards in the back-ground.
In front, TALBOT, WHEELER, LORD JOHN and BURSAL.
There they stand, fair game!
There's Bursal there, with his dead forty-five votes at command; and Lord John with his-how many live friends?
Sir, I have fifty-six friends, I believe.
Fifty-six friends, his lordship believes-Wheeler inclusive, no doubt.
That's as hereafter may be.
You know your own Wheeler has, from the first minute he ever saw you, been your fast friend.
Your fast friend from the first minute he ever saw you, my lord!
That's well hit, Wheeler; stick to that; stick fast.
Fifty-six friends, Wheeler INclusive, hey, my lord!
Lord J. Talbot EXclusive, I find, contrary to my expectations.
Ay, contrary to your expectations, you find that Talbot is not a dog that will lick the dust: but then there's enough of the true spaniel breed to be had for whistling for; hey, Wheeler?
Bursal (aside to Wheeler).
So much the better for you, Wheeler.
Why, unless he bought a vote, he'd never win one, if he talked from this to the day of judgment.
Wheeler (aside to Bursal).
And as he has no money to buy votes-he!
That's well done, Wheeler; fight the by-battle there with Bursal.
Now you are sure of the main with Lord John.
I never made Mr. Wheeler any promise yet.
O; I ask no promise from his lordship; we are upon honour: I trust entirely to his lordship's good nature and generosity, and to his regard for his own family; I having the honour, though distantly, to be related.
Connected, I mean, which is next door, as I may say, to being related.
Related slipped out by mistake; I beg pardon, my Lord John.
Related- a strange mistake, Wheeler.
Overshot yourself, Wheeler; overshot yourself, by all that's awkward.
And yet, till now, I always took you for " a dead-shot at a yellow-hammer.
Hence their flatterers are said to be dead-shots at yellow-hammers.
What a lump of family pride that Lord John is.
Keep out of my hearing, Wheeler, lest I should spoil sport.
But never fear: you'll please Bursal sooner than I shall.
I can't, for the soul of me, bring myself to say that Bursal's not purse-proud, and you can.
A choice electioneerer- ha!
he- a choice electioneerer, as you say.
There was a time, Talbot --
There was a time, my lord-to save trouble and a long explanationthere was a time when you liked Talbots better than spaniels; you understand me?
Lord J. I have found it very difficult to understand you of late, Mr. Talbot.
Yes, because you have used other people's understandings instead of your own.
See with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears, and then you'll find me still, what I've been these seven years; not your understrapper, your hanger-on, your flatterer, but your friend!
If you choose to have me for a friend, here's my hand.
I am your friend, and you'll not find a better.
You are a strange fellow, Talbot; I thought I never could have forgiven you for what you said last night.
for I don't keep a register of my sayings.
Oh, it was something about gaming-Wheeler was flattering your taste for it, and he put me into a passion-I forget what I said.
But, whatever it was, I'm sure it was well meant, and I believe it was well said.
But you laugh at me sometimes to my face.
Would you rather I should laugh at you behind your back?
But of all things in the world I hate to be laughed at.
Listen to me, and don't fumble in your pockets while I'm talking to you.
I'm fumbling for-oh, here it is.
Now, Lord John, I once did laugh at you behind your back, and what's droll enough, it was at your back I laughed.
Here's a caricature I drew of you-I really am sorry I did it; but'tis best to show it to you myself.
It is all I can do to forgive this.
I have heard of this caricature before; but I did not expect, Talbot, that you would come and show it to me, yourself, Talbot, so handsomely, especially at such a time as this.
Wheeler might well say you are a bad electioneerer.
I forgot my election, and your fifty-six friends.
Rory (claps Talbot on the back).
Fifty-six friends, have you, Talbot?
Say seven-fifty-seven, I mean; for I'll lay you a wager, you've forget me; and that's a shame for you, too; for out of the whole posse-comitatus entirely now, you have not a stauncher friend than Poor little Rory O'Ryan.
And a good right he has to befriend you; for you stood by him when many who ought to have known better were hunting him down for a wild Irishman.
Now that same wild Irishman has as much gratitude in him as any tame Englishman of them all.
But don't let's be talking sintimint; for, for my share I'd not give a bogberry a bushel for sintimint, when I could get anything better.
And pray, sir, what may a bogberry be?
don't be playing the innocent, now.
Where have you lived all your life (I ask pardon, my LARD) not to know a bogberry when you see or hear of it?
But what are ye standing idling here for?
Sure, there's Wheeler, and Bursal along with him, canvassing out yonder at a terrible fine rate.
And haven't I been huzzaing for you there till I'm hoarse?
So I am, and just stepped away to suck an orange for my voice --(sucks an orange.)
I am a THOROUGH GOING friend, at anyrate.
Now, Rory, you are the best fellow in the world, and a THOROUGH GOING friend; but have a care, or you'll get yourself and me into some scrape, before you have done with this violent THOROUGH GOING work.
never fear, man- a warm frind and a bitter enemy, that's my maxim.
Yes, but too warm a friend is as bad as a bitter enemy.
I'm as cool as a cucumber all the time; and whilst they tink I'm tinking of nothing in life but making a noise, I make my own snug little remarks in prose and verse, as-now my voice is after coming back to me, you shall hear, if you plase.
Now, mind, I have a verse for everybody-o'the leading lads, I mean; and I shall put'em in or lave'em out, according to their inclinations and deserts, wise-a-wee to you, my little frind.
So you comprehend it will be Rory's song, with variations.
Let's have it; let's have it without further preface.
There's a stroke, in the first place, for Wheeler- you take it?
O yes, yes, we take it; go on.
Of all birds, beasts, or fishes, that swim in the sea, Webb'd or finn'd, black or white, man or child, Whig or Tory, None but Talbot, O, Talbot's the dog for Rory.
But if I have any ear, one of your lines is a foot too long, Mr. O'Ryan.
Phoo, put the best foot foremost for a frind.
Slur it in the singing, and don't be quarrelling, anyhow, for a foot more or less.
The more feet the better it will stand, you know.
Only let me go on, and you'll come to something that will plase you.
That's Bursal, mind now, whom I mean to allude to in this verse.
If the allusion's good, we shall probably find out your meaning.
On with you, Rory, and don't read us notes on a song.
Go on, and let us hear what you say of Bursal.
Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, Won't his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?
Why, Rory, I did not think you could make so good a song.
Sure'twas none of I made it --' twas Talbot here.
Not a word: I'll make you a present of it: sure, then, it's your own.
I never wrote a word of it.
he's only denying it out of false modesty.
Well, no matter who wrote it- sing it again.
Be easy; so I will, and as many more verses as you will to the back of it.
You shall have the credit of all.
Put me in when I'm out, Talbot, and you (to Lord John) join-join.
Rory sings, and Lord John sings with him.
Heir to houses, and hunters, and horseponds in fee, Won't his skins sure soon buy him a pedigree?
There's my lord with the back that never was bent --
Join, join, both of ye-why don't you join?
the arch fishwoman cried, A nice oyster shut up in a choice shell of pride.
But join or ye spoil all.
You have spoiled all, indeed.
Mr. Talbot, Lord John thanks you.
I forgot you were by-quite and clean.
Lord John thanks you, Mr. Talbot: this is the second part of the caricature.
Lord John thanks you for these proofs of friendship-Lord John has reason to thank you, Mr. Talbot.
Don't be thanking so much for nothing in life; or if you must be thanking of somebody, it's me you ought to thank.
Lord J. I ought and do, sir, for unmasking one who --
Rory (holding them asunder).
be easy, can't ye?there's no unmasking at all in the case.
My Lord John, Talbot's writing the song was all a mistake.
As much a mistake as your singing it, sir, I presume --
So now don't you go and make a mistake into a misunderstanding.
It was I made every word of the song out o'the face *that about the back that never was bent, and the ancestors of the oyster, and all.
He did not waste a word of it; upon my conscience, I wrote it all-though I'll engage you didn't think I could write a good thing.
I'm telling you the truth, and not a word of a lie, and yet you won't believe me.
You will excuse me, sir, if I cannot believe two contradictory assertions within two minutes.
Mr. Talbot, I thank you (going).
Well, if he WILL go, let him go then, and much good may it do him.
Nay, but don't you go too.
O Rory, what have you done?--(Talbot runs after Lord J.)
hear him- Well, I'm point blank mad with myself for making this blunder; but how could I help it?
As sure as ever I am meaning to do the best thing on earth, it turns out the worst.
Enter a party of lads, huzzaing.
huzza- Who, pray, are ye huzzaing for?
CAPTAIN he'll never be- at least not to-morrow; for Lord John has just declared for Wheeler.
And that turns the scale.
Oh, the scale may turn back again.
Lord John has just given his promise to Wheeler.
I heard him with my own ears.
O, my poor Talbot- murder!
But I won't let them see me cast down, and it is good to be huzzaing at all events.
Enter WHEELER and BURSAL.
Who was that huzzaing for Talbot?
Pooh, it is only Rory O'Ryan, or the roaring lion as I call him.
Rory O'Ryan, alias O'Ryan, the roaring lion; that's a good one; put it about-Rory O'Ryan, the roaring lion, ha!
but you don't take it-you don't laugh, Wheeler.
O, upon my honour I do laugh; ha!
It is the hardest work to laugh at his wit.
Rory O'Ryan, the roaring lion-ha!
You know I always laugh, Bursal, at your jokes-he!
he- ready to kill myself.
You are easily killed, then, if that much laughing will do the business.
Just then-something stuck in my throat; I beg your pardon.
Oh, you need not beg my pardon about the matter.
I don't care whether you laugh or no-not I.
Now you have got Lord John to declare for you, you are above laughing at my jokes, I suppose.
No, upon my word and honour, I DID laugh.
A fig for your word and honour.
I know I'm of no consequence now; but you'll remember, that if his lordship has the honour of making you captain, he must have the honour to pay for your captain's accoutrements; for I sha'n't pay the piper, I promise you, since I'm of no consequence.
But, my dear Bursal, what could put that into your head?
that's the strangest, oddest fancy.
Bursal, of no consequence!
Why, everybody that knows anything-everybody that has seen Bursal House-knows that you are of the greatest consequence, my dear Bursal.
No, I'm of no consequence.
I wonder that rascal Finsbury is not come yet with the dresses (still looking at his watch).
If Bursal takes it into his head not to lend me the money to pay for my captain's dress, what will become of me?
for I have not a shilling-and Lord John won't pay for me-and Finsbury has orders not to leave the house till he is paid by everybody.
What will become of me?--(bites his nails).
How I love to make him bite his nails!
I know I'm of no consequence.
What a fine repeater that is of yours, Bursal!
It is the best I ever heard.
So it well may be; for it cost a mint of money.
No matter to you what anything costs.
You roll in money; and yet you talk of being of no consequence.
But I am not of half so much consequence as Lord John-am I?
Why, aren't you twice as rich as he!
Very true, but I'm not purse-proud.
I should never have thought of such a thing.
Nor I, if Talbot had not used the word.
But Talbot thinks everybody purse-proud that has a purse.
Well, this Wheeler does put one into a good humour with one's self in spite of one's teeth.
Talbot says blunt things; but I don't think he's what you can call clever-hey, Wheeler?
I think I could walk round him.
Why, do you know, I've quizzed him famously myself within this quarter of an hour!
I wanted, you see, to get him out of my way, that I might have the field clear for electioneering to-day.
So I bowls up to him with a long face-such a face as this.
Mr. Talbot, do you know-I'm sorry to tell you, here's Jack Smith has just brought the news from Salt Hill.
Your mother, in getting into the carriage, slipped, and has BROKE her leg, and there she's lying at a farmhouse, two miles off.
said I. I saw the farmer helping her in with my own eyes, cries Jack.
Off goes Talbot like an arrow.
Quizzed him, quizzed him!
quizzed him indeed, with all his cleverness; that was famously done.
With all his cleverness he will be all the evening hunting for the farmhouse and the mother that has broke her leg; so he is out of our way.
But what need have you to want him out of your way, now Lord John has come over to your side?
You have the thing at a dead beat.
Not so dead either; for there's a great independent party, you know; and if YOU don't help me, Bursal, to canvass them, I shall be no captain.
It is you I depend upon after all.
Will you come and canvass them with me?
Dear Bursal, pray-all depends upon you.
Well, if all depends upon me, I'll see what I can do for you.
Then I am of some consequence!
Money makes a man of some consequence, I see; at least with some folks.
In the back scene a flock of sheep are seen penned.
In front, a party of country lads and lasses, gaily dressed, as in sheep-shearing time, with ribands and garlands of flowers, etc., are dancing and singing.
Enter PATTY, dressed as the Queen of the Festival, with a lamb in her arms.
The dancers break off when she comes in, and direct their attention towards her.
Here comes the Queen o'the day.
What has kept you from us so long, Patty?
This poor little lamb of mine was what kept me so long.
It strayed away from the rest; and I should have lost him, so I should, for ever, if it had not been for a good young gentleman.
Yonder he is, talking to Farmer Hearty.
That's the young gentleman who pulled my lamb out of the ditch for me, into which he had fallen-pretty creature!
Pretty creature-or, your Majesty, whichever you choose to be called-come and dance with them, and I'll carry your lamb.
Enter FARMER HEARTY and TALBOT.
Why, young gentleman, I'm glad I happened to light upon you here, and so to hinder you from going farther astray, and set your heart at ease like.
Thanks, good farmer, you have set my heart at ease, indeed.
But the truth is, they did frighten me confoundedly-more fool I.
No fool at all, to my notion.
I should, at your age, ay, or at my age, just the self-same way have been frightened myself, if so be that mention had been made to me, that way, of my own mother's having broke her leg or so.
And greater, by a great deal, the shame for them that frighted you, than for you to be frighted.
How young gentlemen, now, can bring themselves for to tell such lies, is to me, now, a matter of amazement, like, that I can't noways get over.
Oh, farmer, such lies are very witty, though you and I don't just now like the wit of them.
This is fun, this is quizzing; but you don't know what we young gentlemen mean by quizzing.
Ay, but I do though, to my cost, ever since last year.
Look you, now, at yon fine field of wheat.
Well, it was just as fine, and finer, last year, till a young Eton jackanapes --
Take care what you say, farmer; for I am a young Eton jackanapes.
No; but you be not the young Eton jackanapes that I'm a-thinking on.
I tell you it was this time last year, man; he was a-horseback, I tell ye, mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting, like.
I tell you it was this time last year, man, that I was mounted upon a fine bay hunter, out a-hunting.
would you argufy a man out of his wits?
You won't go for to tell me that you are that impertinent little jackanapes!
I'll not tell you that I am an impertinent little jackanapes!
Farm (wiping his forehead).
Well, don't then, for I can't believe it; and you put me out.
Mounted upon a fine bay hunter.
Now, if he had but a-spoke me fair, I would not have gainsaid him: but he falls to swearing, so I bid him open the gate for himself.
cries my jackanapes, and off he gallops him, through the very thick of my corn; but he got a fall, leaping the ditch out yonder, which pacified me, like, at the minute.
So I goes up to see whether he was killed; but he was not a whit the worse for his tumble.
So I should ha'fell into a passion with him then, to be sure, about my corn; but his horse had got such a terrible sprain, I couldn't say anything to him; for I was a-pitying the poor animal.
As fine a hunter as ever you saw!
I am sartain sure he could never come to good after.
I do think, from the description, that this was Wheeler; and I have paid for the horse which he spoiled!
Should you know either the man or the horse again, if you were to see them?
Ay, that I should, to my dying day.
Will you come with me, then, and you'll do me some guineas'worth of service?
Ay, that I will, with a deal of pleasure; for you be a civil spoken young gentleman; and, besides, I don't think the worse on you for being FRIGHTED a little about your mother; being what I might ha'been, at your age, myself; for I had a mother myself once.
The garden of the " Windmill Inn," at Salt Hill.
MISS BURSAL, MRS. NEWINGTON, SALLY, the Chambermaid.
Sally is holding a glass of water and a smelling bottle.)
At the " Windmill," at Salt Hill, young lady; and ill or well, you can't be better.
Do you find yourself better since coming into the air, miss?
Oh, I shall never be better!
My dear young lady, don't take on so.
Now would I give something to know what it was my Lady Piercefield said to the father, and what the father said to this one, and what's the matter at the bottom of affairs.
Sally, did you hear anything at the doors?
No, indeed, ma'am; I never BE'S at the doors.
But, my dear Miss Bursal, if I may be so bold-if you'd only disembosom your mind of what's on it --
Miss B. Disembosom my mind!
Oh, I'll make her pay for that!
That MADAM shall go down in the bill, as sure as my name's Newington.
Well, I wish you better, ma'am.
I suppose I'd best send your own servant?
You need not wait, child, nor look so curious.
Indeed, miss, if I look a little CUR'OUS, or so (looking at her dress),'tis only because I was FRIGHTED to see you take on, which made me forget my clean apron, when I came out; and this apron--
Don't tell me about clean aprons, nor run on with your vulgar talk.
Is there ever a seat one can set on in that _H_arbour yonder?
O dear'ART, yes, miss;'tis the pleasantest _H_arbour on _H_earth.
Be pleased to lean on my _H_arm, and you'll soon be there.
Then tell my woman she need not come to me, and let nobody INTERUDE on me-do you'EAR?
Oh, what will become of me?
and the Talbots will soon know it!
And the ponies, and the curricle, and the vis-a-vis-what will become of them?
and how shall I make my appearance at the Montem, or any WARE else?
LORD JOHN-WHEELER-BURSAL.
Well, but my lord-Well, but Bursal-though my Lady Piercefield-though Miss Bursal is come to Salt Hill, you won't leave us all at sixes and sevens.
What can we do without you?
You can do very well without me.
You can do very well without me.
You know Mr. Finsbury will be here just now, with the dresses; and we have to try them on.
And to settle about the procession.
And then, my lord, the election is to come on this evening.
You won't go till that's over, as your lordship has PROMISED me your lordship's vote and interest.
My vote I promised you, Mr. Wheeler; but I said not a syllable about my INTEREST.
My friends, perhaps, have not been offended, though I have, by Mr. Talbot.
I shall leave them to their own inclinations.
Wheeler, the principal's nothing without the interest.
Oh, the interest will go along with the principal, of course; for I'm persuaded, if my lord leaves his friends to their inclinations, it will be the inclination of my lord's friends to vote as he does, if he says nothing to them to the contrary.
Lord J. I told you, Mr. Wheeler, that I should leave them to themselves.
Well, I'll do my best to make that father of mine send me off to Oxford.
I'm sure I'm fit to go-along with Wheeler.
Why, you'd best be my tutor, Wheeler- a devilish good thought.
And a cursed fine dust we should kick up at Oxford, with your Montem money and all- Money's THE GO after all.
I wish it was come to my making you my last bow, " ye distant spires, ye ANTIC towers!
Ye ANTIC towers- fit for Oxford, my lord!
Antique towers, I suppose Mr. Bursal means.
Antique, to be sure- I said antique, did not I, Wheeler?
What a mean animal is this!
Why, now, what's become of Talbot, I want to know?
There he is not to be found anywhere in the wide world; and there's a hullabaloo amongst his friends for him.
Lord J. I have not the honour, sir, to be one of Mr. Talbot's friends.
It is his own fault, and I am sorry for it.
Enter a party of boys, who cry, Finsbury's come- Finsbury's come with the dresses!
Oh, let us see the dresses, and let us try'em on to-night.
On with ye-on with ye, there- Let's try'em on- Try'em on-I'm to be colonel.
And I college salt-bearer.
Oh, what a pity I'm in mourning.
We are to be the eight servitors.
And I am to be your Captain, I hope.
By-and-by-I've a word in his ear, by your LAVE and his.
Why, what the devil stops the way, there?Push on-on with them.
On with you-on with you-who cares what you are?
You'll pay Finsbury for me, you rich Jew?
Your lordship will remember your lordship's promise.
Lord J. I do not usually forget my promises, sir; and therefore need not to be reminded of them.
I beg pardon-I beg ten thousand pardons, my lord.
Come on, man, and don't stand begging pardon there, or I'll leave you.
I beg pardon, Bursal-I beg pardon, ten thousand times.
Manent LORD JOHN and RORY O'RYAN.
Wheugh- Now put the case.
If I was going to be hanged, for the life of me I couldn't be after begging so many pardons for nothing at all.
But many men, many minds --(Hums.)
I forgot, I was nigh letting the cat out o'the bag again.
You had something to say to me, sir?
I wait till your recollection returns.
You are mistaken, Mr. O'Ryan, if you think that you did or could offend me.
Mistaken was I, then, sure enough; but we are all liable to mistakes, and should forget and forgive one another; that's the way to go through.
You will go through the world your own way, Mr. O'Ryan, and allow me to go through it my way.
Very fair-fair enough-then we shan't cross.
But now, to come to the point.
I don't like to be making disagreeable retrospects, if I could any way avoid it; nor to be going about the bush, especially at this time o'day; when, as Mr. Finsbury's come, we've not so much time to lose as we had.
Is there any truth, then, my lord, in the report that is going about this hour past, that you have gone in a huff, and given your promise there to that sneaking Wheeler to vote for him now?
In answer to your question, sir, I am to inform you that I HAVE promised Mr. Wheeler to vote for him.
In a huff?Ay, now, there it is- Well, when a man's MAD, to be sure, he's mad-and that's all that can be said about it.
And I know, if I had been MAD myself, I might have done a foolish thing as well as another.
But now, my lord, that you are not mad --
Lord J. I protest, sir, I cannot understand you.
In one word, sir, I'm neither mad nor a fool- Your most obedient (going, angrily).
Take care now; you are going mad with me again.
I like you the better for being mad.
I'm very often mad myself, and I would not give a potato for one that had never been mad in his life.
He'll not be quiet, till he makes me knock him down.
agh- I begin to guess whereabouts I am at last.
MAD, in your country, I take it, means fit for Bedlam; but with us in Ireland, now,'tis no such thing; it mean's nothing in life but the being in a passion.
Well, one comfort is, my lord, as you're a bit of a scholar, we have the Latin proverb in our favour --" Ira furor brevis est " (Anger is short madness).
The shorter the better, I think.
So, my lord, to put an end to whatever of the kind you may have felt against poor Talbot, I'll assure you he's as innocent o'that unfortunate song as the babe unborn.
It is rather late for Mr. Talbot to make apologies to me.
Not he,'faith; he'd send me to Coventry, or, maybe, to a worse place, did he but know I was condescending to make this bit of explanation, unknown to him.
But, upon my conscience, I've a regard for you both, and don't like to see you go together by the ears.
By this book, and all the books that were ever shut and opened, he never saw or heard of that unlucky song of mine till I came out with it this morning.
But you told me this morning that it was he who wrote it.
For that I take shame to myself, as it turned out; but it was only a WHITE lie to SARVE a friend, and make him cut a dash with a new song at election time.
But I've done for ever with white lies.
I wish you had never begun with them, Mr. O'Ryan.
This may be a good joke to you; but it is none to me or Talbot.
So Talbot never wrote a word of the song?
Not a word or syllable, good or bad.
And I have given my promise to vote against him.
Not if you'll give me leave to speak to your friends in your name.
Lord J. I have promised to leave them to themselves; and Wheeler, I am sure, has engaged them by this time.
I'll not stay prating here then.
But what can have become of Talbot?
I have been too hasty for once in my life.
Well, I shall suffer for it more than anybody else; for I love Talbot, since he did not make the song, of which I hate to think.
A large hall in Eton College-A staircase at the end-Eton lads, dressed in their Montem Dresses in the Scene-In front, WHEELER (dressed as Captain), BURSAL and FINSBURY.
I give you infinite credit, Mr. Wheeler, for this dress.
Why, he'll have no objection to that-hey, Wheeler?
But I thought Finsbury knew you too well to give you credit for anything.
You are pleased to be pleasant, sir.
Mr. Wheeler knows, in that sense of the word, it is out of my power to give him credit, and I'm sure he would not ask it.
O, Bursal, pay him, and I'll pay you tomorrow.
Now, if you weren't to be captain after all, Wheeler, what a pretty figure you'd cut.
Oh, I am as sure of being captain as of being alive.
Do pay for me, now, there's a good, dear fellow, before THEY (looking back) come up.
I love to make him lick the dust.
here's Finsbury waiting to be paid, lads.
Who has paid, and who has not paid, I say?
Enter LORD JOHN and RORY O'RYAN.
Oh, King of Fashion, how fine we are!
Why, now, to look at ye all one might fancy one's self at the playhouse at once, or at a fancy ball in dear little Dublin.
Wherever you come, Rory O'Ryan, no one else can be heard.
Who has paid, and who has not paid, I say?
I've not paid, but here's my money.
We have not paid, but here's our money.
Order there, I am marshal.
All that have paid march off to the staircase, and take your seats there, one by one.
A thousand thanks, gentlemen.
The finest sight ever I saw out of Lon'on.
Rory, as each lad passes, catches his arm, Are you a TalbotITE or a WheelerITE?
To each who answers " A Wheelerite," Rory replies, " Phoo!
Go to the devil and shake yourself.
When they have almost all passed, Lord John says, But where can Mr. Talbot be all this time?
Finsbury's waiting to be paid.
You don't wait for me, Mr. Finsbury.
You know, I have settled with you.
Many thanks: and I have left your lordship's dress here, and everybody's dress, I believe, as bespoke.
Here, Finsbury, is the money for Wheeler, who, between you and me, is as poor as a rat.
Wheeler (affecting to laugh.).
Well, I hope I shall be as rich as a Jew to-morrow.
A thousand thanks for all favours.
You will be kind enough to LAVE Mr. Talbot's dress with me, Mr. Finsbury, for I'm a friend.
Indubitably, sir: but the misfortune is-he!
Talbot, sir, has bespoke no dress.
So your friend Mr. Talbot could not afford to bespeak a dress-(Bursal and Wheeler laugh insolently.)
How comes that, I wonder?
If I'm not mistaken, here comes Talbot to answer for himself.
But who, in the name of St. Patrick, has he along with him?
Enter TALBOT and LANDLORD.
Come in along with us, Farmer Hearty-come in.
Come down, lads; here's more fun.
An honest farmer, and a good natured landlord, who would come here along with me to speak --
To speak the truth --(strikes his stick on the ground).
Landlord (unbuttoning his waistcoat).
But I am so hot-so short-winded, that (panting and puffing)that for the soul and body of me, I cannot say what I have got for to say.
Wheeler, what's the matter, man?
you look as if your under jaw was broke.
The matter is, young gentlemen, that there was once upon a time a fine, bay hunter.
Don't expose me, don't let him tell.
I'll pay for the corn I spoiled.
I does not want to be paid for my corn.
The short of it is, young gentlemen, this'un here, in the fine thing-em-bobs (pointing to Wheeler), is a shabby fellow; he went and spoiled Master Newington's best hunter.
But was that all the shabbiness?
Now I might, or any of us might, have had such an accident as that.
I suppose he paid the gentleman for the horse, or will do so, in good time.
Oh, that I had but a little breath in this body o'mine to speak all-speak on, Farmer.
Oons, sir, when a man's put out, he can't go on with his story.
Why, sir, I was a-going to tell you the shabbiness-why, sir, he did not pay the landlord, here, for the horse; but he goes and says to the landlord, here --" Mr. Talbot had your horse on the self-same day;'twas he did the damage;'tis from he you must get your money.
Rory (rubbing his hands).
And, now, gentlemen (to Wheeler and Bursal), you guess the RASON, as I do, I suppose, why he bespoke no dress; he had not money enough to be fine-and honest, too.
You are very fine, Mr. Wheeler, to do you justice.
Lord J. Pray, Mr. O'Ryan, let the farmer go on; he has more to say.
How did you find out, pray, my good friend, that it was not Talbot who spoiled the horse!
Speak loud enough to be heard by everybody.
Ay, that I will-I say (very loudly) I say I saw him there (pointing to Wheeler) take the jump which strained the horse; and I'm ready to swear to it.
Yet he let another pay; there's the shabbiness.
I'll not vote for shabby Wheeler!")
Wheeler, if you are not chosen Captain, you must see and pay me for the dress.
hear ye, all manner of men-the election is now going to begin forthwith in the big field, and Rory O'Ryan holds the poll for Talbot.
The Landlord and Farmer join them.)
Lord J. Talbot, I am glad you are what I always thought you-I'm glad you did not write that odious song.
I would not lose such a friend for all the songs in the world.
Forgive me for my hastiness this morning.
I've punished myself-I've promised to vote for Wheeler.
Oh, no matter whom you vote for, my lord, if you are still my friend, and if you know me to be yours.
Lord J. I must not say, " Huzza for Talbot!
LADY PIERCEFIELD, MRS. TALBOT, LOUISA, and a little girl of six years old, LADY VIOLETTA, daughter to LADY PIERCEFIELD.
Violetta (looking at a paper which Louisa holds).
Lady P. What is it that you like VERY much, Violetta?
You are not to know yet, mamma; it is-I may tell her that-it is a little drawing that Louisa is doing for me.
Louisa, I wish you would let me show it to mamma.
And welcome, my dear; it is only a sketch of " The Little Merchants," a story which Violetta was reading, and she asked me to try to draw the pictures of the little merchants for her.
But are you in earnest, Louisa, about what you were saying to me just now- quite in earnest?
Yes, in earnest- quite in earnest, my dear.
And may I ask mamma, NOW?
Stoop down to me, mamma; I've something to whisper to you.
Mamma, do you know-you know you want a governess for me.
Lady P. Yes, if I could find a good one.
Stoop again, mamma, I've more to whisper.
SHE says she will be my governess, if you please.
Lady P. (patting Violetta's cheek).
Miss Talbot is only playing with you.
No, indeed, mamma; she is in earnest; are not you, Louisa?Oh, say yes!
YES, mamma; do you hear YES?
If Lady Piercefield will trust you to my care, I am persuaded that I should be much happier as your governess, my good little Violetta, than as an humble dependent of Miss Bursal's.
You see that, now I am put to the trial, I keep to my resolution, dear mother.
Mrs. T. Your ladyship would not be surprised at this offer of my Louisa, if you had heard, as we have done within these few hours, of the loss of the East India ship in which almost our whole property was embarked.
The Bombay Castle is wrecked.
Lady P. The Bombay Castle!
I have the pleasure to tell you that you are misinformed-it was the Airly Castle that was wrecked.
Louisa and Mrs. T. Indeed!
Lady P. Yes; you may depend upon it-it was the Airly Castle that was lost.
You know I am just come from Portsmouth, where I went to meet my brother, Governor Morton, who came home with the last India fleet, and from whom I had the intelligence.
Lady P. They were in such haste, foolish people!
to carry their news to London, that they mistook one castle for another.
But do you know that Mr. Bursal loses fifty thousand pounds, it is said, by the Airly Castle!
When I told him she was lost, I thought he would have dropped down.
However, I found he comforted himself afterwards with a bottle of Burgundy: but poor Miss Bursal has been in hysterics ever since.
My Louisa, YOU did not fall into hysterics, when I told you of the loss of our whole fortune.
What are hysterics, I wonder.
Miss Bursal is much to be pitied; for the loss of wealth will be the loss of happiness to her.
Lady P. It is to be hoped that the loss may at least check the foolish pride and extravagance of young Bursal, who, as my son tells me --
Miss Talbot, I give you joy.
Lady P. Take breath-take breath.
Mrs. T. Here he is- Hark!
Yes, they are chairing him; and he has been chosen for his honourable conduct, not for his electioneering skill; for, to do him justice, Coriolanus himself was not a worse electioneerer.
Enter RORY O'RYAN and another Eton lad, carrying TALBOT in a chair, followed by a crowd of Eton lads.
By your LAVE, my lord-by your LAVE, ladies.
Talbot and truth for ever!
There's nothing like a good loud huzza in this world.
for, as my Lord John said just now, out of some book, or out of his own head-
In the neighbourhood of a seaport town in the west of England, there lived a gardener, who had one son, called Maurice, to whom he was very partial.
One day his father sent him to the neighbouring town to purchase some garden seeds for him.
When Maurice got to the seed-shop, it was full of people, who were all impatient to be served: first a great tall man, and next a great fat woman pushed before him; and he stood quietly beside the counter, waiting till somebody should be at leisure to attend to him.
At length, when all the other people who were in the shop had got what they wanted, the shopman turned to Maurice --" And what do you want, my patient little fellow?
And my china jar, is it packed up and directed?
It shall be done to-day; and we will get the seeds ready for you, sir, immediately.
The seeds will not pack themselves up.
He can wait, and I cannot-wind and tide wait for no man.
Here, my good lad, take your parcel, and sheer off," said the impatient man; and, as he spoke, he took up the parcel of seeds from the counter, as the shopman stooped to look for a sheet of thick brown paper and packthread to tie it up.
The parcel was but loosely folded up, and as the impatient man lifted it, the weight of the peas which were withinside of it burst the paper, and all the seeds fell out upon the floor, whilst Maurice in vain held his hands to catch them.
The peas rolled to all parts of the shop; the impatient man swore at them, but Maurice, without being out of humour, set about collecting them as fast as possible.
Whilst the boy was busied in this manner, the man got what seeds he wanted; and as he was talking about them, a sailor came into the shop, and said, " Captain, the wind has changed within these five minutes, and it looks as if we should have ugly weather.
The captain pushed forward towards the shop door.
Maurice, who was kneeling on the floor, picking up his seeds, saw that the captain's foot was entangled in some packthread which hung down from the shelf on which the china jar stood.
Maurice saw that, if the captain took one more step forward, he must pull the string, so that it would throw down the jar, round the bottom of which the packthread was entangled.
He immediately caught hold of the captain's leg, and stopped him.
said he, " or you will break your china jar.
The man stood still, looked, and saw how the packthread had caught in his shoe buckle, and how it was near dragging down his beautiful china jar.
It would have been a pity if I had broken it just when it was safe landed.
I am really much obliged to you, my little fellow, this was returning good for evil.
I am sorry I threw down your seeds, as you are such a good natured, forgiving boy.
Be so kind," continued he, turning to the shopman, " as to reach down that china jar for me.
The shopman lifted down the jar very carefully, and the captain took off the cover, and pulled out some tulip roots.
Are you fond of gardening?
These tulips were given to me by a Dutch merchant, who told me that they were some of the rarest and finest in Holland.
They will prosper with you, I'm sure, wind and weather permitting.
Maurice thanked the gentleman, and returned home, eager to show his precious tulip-roots to his father, and to a companion of his, the son of a nurseryman, who lived near him.
Arthur was the name of the nurseryman's son.
The first thing Maurice did, after showing his tulip-roots to his father, was to run to Arthur's garden in search of him.
Their gardens were separated only by a low wall of loose stones: " Arthur!
But Arthur made no answer, and did not, as usual, come running to meet his friend.
Maurice lifted up the lump of couch-grass, which had fallen through the broken glass upon his cucumbers, and he looked at his cucumbers for a moment in silence --" Oh, my poor cucumbers!
I shall see all your yellow flowers withered tomorrow; but it is done, and it cannot be helped; so, Arthur, let us say no more about it.
I am sure I should have been exceedingly angry if you had broken the glass, if it had been mine.
Look what I have got for you.
I am much more sorry for it than if you had been in a passion with me!
Arthur now went to plant his tulip-root: and Maurice looked at the beds which his companion had been digging, and at all the things which were coming up in his garden.
I am much happier since my father came to live here, and since you and I have been allowed to work and to play together, than I ever was before; for you must know, before we came to live here, I had a cousin in the house with me, who used to plague me.
He was not nearly so good-natured as you are.
He never took pleasure in looking at my garden, or at anything that I did that was well done; and he never gave me a share of anything that he had; and so I did not like him; how could I?
But, I believe that hating people makes us unhappy; for I know I never was happy when I was quarrelling with him; and I am always happy with you, Maurice.
You know we never quarrel.
It would be well for all the world if they could be convinced, like Arthur, that to live in friendship is better than to quarrel.
It would be well for all the world if they followed Maurice's maxim of " Forgive and Forget," when they receive, or when they imagine that they receive, an injury.
Arthur's father, Mr. Oakly, the nurseryman, was apt to take offence at trifles; and when he thought that any of his neighbours disobliged him, he was too proud to ask them to explain their conduct; therefore he was often mistaken in his judgment of them.
He was not very rich, but he was proud; and his favourite proverb was, " Better live in spite than in pity.
Grant's friendly manners in some degree conquered this prepossession but still he secretly suspected that THIS CIVILITY, as he said, " was all show, and that he was not, nor could not, being a Scotchman, be such a hearty friend as a true-born Englishman.
Grant had some remarkably fine raspberries.
The fruit was so large, as to be quite a curiosity.
When it was in season, many strangers came from the neighbouring town, which was a sea-bathing place, to look at these raspberries, which obtained the name of Brobdingnag raspberries.
said Mr. Oakly, one evening, to the gardener.
But I wish, neighbour Grant, you would put down that book.
You are always poring over some book or another when a man comes to see you, which is not, according to my notions (being a plain, UNLARNED Englishman bred and born), so civil and neighbourly as might be.
Mr. Grant hastily shut his book, but remarked, with a shrewd glance at his son, that it was in that book he found his Brobdingnag raspberries.
Here's to the health of you and yours, not forgetting the seedling larches, which I see are coming on finely.
He was going to have asked for some of the Brobdingnag raspberry-plants.
The answer which Oakly's wife brought to him was that Mr. Grant had not a raspberry-plant in the world to give him, and that if he had ever so many, he would not give one away, except to his own son.
let me never again see you with Grant's son.
Arthur burst out a crying, and only said, " Yes, father, I'll do as you bid me, to be sure.
Is there no other boy, simpleton, think you, to play with, but this Scotchman's son!
I'll find out another play-fellow for ye, child, if that be all.
Oh, father, and shall I never go again to work in his garden, and may not he come to mine?
Wife, sweep up this hearth.
Boy, don't take on like a fool; but eat thy bacon and greens, and let's hear no more of Maurice Grant.
Arthur promised to obey his father.
He only begged that he might once more speak to Maurice, and tell him that it was by his father's orders he acted.
This request was granted; but when Arthur further begged to know what reason he might give for this separation, his father refused to tell his reasons.
The two friends took leave of one another very sorrowfully.
Mr. Grant, when he heard of all this, endeavoured to discover what could have offended his neighbour; but all explanation was prevented by the obstinate silence of Oakly.
Now, the message which Grant really sent about the Brobdingnag raspberries was somewhat different from that which Mr. Oakly received.
The message was, that the raspberries were not Mr. Grant's; that therefore he had no right to give them away; that they belonged to his son Maurice, and that this was not the right time of year for planting them.
This message had been unluckily misunderstood.
The horse, on which Mrs. Oakly rode this day being ill-broken, would not stand still quietly at the gate, and she was extremely impatient to receive her answer, and to ride on to market.
Oakly, when he had once resolved to dislike his neighbour Grant, could not long remain without finding out fresh causes of complaint.
There was in Grant's garden a plum-tree, which was planted close to the loose stone wall that divided the garden from the nursery.
The soil in which the plum tree was planted happened not to be quite so good as that which was on the opposite side of the wall, and the plum-tree had forced its way through the wall, and gradually had taken possession of the ground which it liked best.
The attorney, at the end of this time, came to Oakly with a demand for money to carry on his suit, assuring him that, in a short time, it would be determined in his favour.
Oakly paid his attorney ten golden guineas, remarked that it was a great sum for him to pay, and that nothing but the love of justice could make him persevere in this lawsuit about a bit of ground, " which, after all," said he, " is not worth twopence.
The plum-tree does me little or no damage, but I don't like to be imposed upon by a Scotchman.
The attorney saw and took advantage of Oakly's prejudice against the natives of Scotland; and he persuaded him, that to show the SPIRIT of a true-born Englishman it was necessary, whatever it might cost him, to persist in this law suit.
It was soon after this conversation with the attorney that Mr. Oakly walked, with resolute steps, towards the plum-tree, saying to himself, " If it cost me a hundred pounds I will not let this cunning Scotchman get the better of me.
Arthur interrupted his father's reverie, by pointing to a book and some young plants which lay upon the wall.
It contained these words:
But though you are angry with me, I am not angry with you.
I hope you will not refuse some of my Brobdingnag raspberry-plants, which you asked for a great while ago, when we were all good friends.
You will find the ashes in the flower-pot upon the wall.
I have never spoken to Arthur, nor he to me, since you bid us not.
So, wishing your Brobdingnag raspberries may turn out as well as ours, and longing to be all friends again, I am, with love to dear Arthur and self, " Your affectionate neighbour's son, " MAURICE GRANT.
A great part of the effect of this letter was lost upon Oakly, because he was not very expert in reading writing, and it cost him much trouble to spell it and put it together.
Do you hear me, I say, Arthur?
What are you reading there?
Arthur was reading the page that was doubled down in the book, which Maurice had left along with the raspberry-plants upon the wall.
Arthur read aloud as follows:--
These strawberries are usually of the largeness of a middle-sized apricot, and the flavour is particularly grateful.
Although this may be attributed to these islands being surrounded with a salt, and consequently a moist atmosphere, yet the ashes (seaweed ashes) made use of as manure, may also have their portion of influence.
He gave me leave, and I went directly and gathered together some seaweed that had been cast on shore; and I dried it, and burned it, and then I manured the raspberries with it, and the year afterwards the raspberries grew to the size that you have seen.
Perhaps this was the thing that has made you so angry with us all; for you never have come to see father since that evening.
Now I have told you all I know; and so I hope you will not be angry with us any longer.'
Mr. Oakly was much pleased by this openness, and said, " Why now, Arthur, this is something like, this is telling one the thing one wants to know, without fine speeches.
This is like an Englishman more than a Scotchman.
Pray, Arthur, do you know whether your friend Maurice was born in England or in Scotland?
All I know is, that wherever he was born, he is VERY good.
Look, papa, my tulip is blowing.
was the father's inquiry.
Do you know, father, I have often sat for an hour at a time up in that crab-tree, looking at Maurice at work in his garden, and wishing that I was at work with him.
Here Arthur was interrupted by the attorney, who came to ask Mr. Oakly some question about the lawsuit concerning the plum-tree.
Oakly showed him Maurice's letter; and to Arthur's extreme astonishment, the attorney had no sooner read it, than he exclaimed, " What an artful little gentleman this is!
I never, in the course of all my practice, met with anything better.
Why, this is the most cunning letter I ever read.
said Oakly, and he put on his spectacles.
They know-that is, Mr. Grant, who is sharp enough, knows-that he will be worsted in that suit; that he must, in short, pay you a good round sum for damages, if it goes on --
said Oakly, staring round him at the plum-tree; " but I don't know what you mean.
I mean nothing but what's honest.
I don't mean to ask for any good round sum; for the plum-tree has done me no great harm by coming into my garden; but only I don't choose it should come there without my leave.
exclaimed Oakly, " I never took a bribe, and I never will "; and, with sudden indignation, he pulled the raspberry plants from the ground in which Arthur was planting them; and he threw them over the wall into Grant's garden.
Maurice had put his tulip, which was beginning to blow, in a flower-pot, on the top of the wall, in hopes that his friend Arthur would see it from day to day.
he knew not in what a dangerous situation he had placed it.
One of his own Brobdingnag raspberry-plants, swung by the angry arm of Oakly, struck off the head of his precious tulip!
Arthur, who was full of the thought of convincing his father that the attorney was mistaken in his judgment of poor Maurice, did not observe the fall of the tulip.
The next day, when Maurice saw his raspberry-plants scattered upon the ground, and his favourite tulip broken, he was in much astonishment, and, for some moments, angry; but anger, with him, never lasted long.
He was convinced that all this must be owing to some accident or mistake.
He could not believe that anyone could be so malicious as to injure him on purpose --" And even if they did all this on purpose to vex me," said he to himself, " the best thing I can do, is, not to let it vex me.
This temper of mind Maurice was more happy in enjoying than he could have been made, without it, by the possession of all the tulips in Holland.
Tulips were, at this time, things of great consequence in the estimation of the country several miles round where Maurice and Arthur lived.
There was a florist's feast to be held at the neighbouring town, at which a prize of a handsome set of gardening-tools was to be given to the person who could produce the finest flower of its kind.
A tulip was the flower which was thought the finest the preceding year, and consequently numbers of people afterwards endeavoured to procure tulip-roots, in hopes of obtaining the prize this year.
Arthur's tulip was beautiful.
As he examined it from day to day, and every day thought it improving, he longed to thank his friend Maurice for it; and he often mounted into his crab-tree, to look into Maurice's garden, in hopes of seeing his tulip also in full bloom and beauty.
The day of the florist's feast arrived, and Oakly went with his son and the fine tulip to the place of meeting.
It was on a spacious bowling-green.
All the flowers of various sorts were ranged upon a terrace at the upper end of the bowling-green; and, amongst all this gay variety, the tulip which Maurice had given to Arthur appeared conspicuously beautiful.
To the owner of this tulip the prize was adjudged; and, as the handsome garden-tools were delivered to Arthur, he heard a well known voice wish him joy.
He turned, looked about him, and saw his friend Maurice.
said Mr. Oakly; " I thought, Arthur, you told me that he kept one for himself.
cried Arthur and Mr. Oakly at once.
Mr. Oakly was mistaken: the father would not accept of the tools.
Mr. Oakly stood surprised --" Certainly," said he to himself, " this cannot be such a miser as I took him for "; and he walked immediately up to Grant, and bluntly said to him, " Mr. Grant, your son has behaved very handsomely to my son; and you seem to be glad of it.
said Grant, with surprise; and Oakly repeated exactly the message which he received; and Grant declared that he never sent any such message.
He repeated exactly the answer which he really sent, and Oakly immediately stretched out his hand to him, saying " I believe you: no more need be said.
I'm only sorry I did not ask you about this four months ago; and so I should have done if you had not been a Scotchman.
Till now, I never rightly liked a Scotchman.
We may thank this good little fellow," continued he, turning to Maurice, " for our coming at last to a right understanding.
There was no holding out against his good nature.
I'm sure, from the bottom of my heart, I'm sorry I broke his tulip.
Shake hands, boys; I'm glad to see you, Arthur, look so happy again, and hope Mr. Grant will forgive --
And from this time forward the two families lived in friendship with each other.
Oakly laughed at his own folly, in having been persuaded to go to law about the plum-tree; and he, in process of time, so completely conquered his early prejudice against Scotchmen, that he and Grant became partners in business.
Mr. Grant's book-LARNING and knowledge of arithmetic he found highly useful to him; and he, on his side, possessed a great many active, good qualities, which became serviceable to his partner.
The two boys rejoiced in this family union; and Arthur often declared that they owed all their happiness to Maurice's favourite maxim, " Forgive and Forget.
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT; or TWO STRINGS TO YOUR BOW.
Mr. Gresham, a Bristol merchant, who had, by honourable industry and economy, accumulated a considerable fortune, retired from business to a new house which he had built upon the Downs, near Clifton.
Mr. Gresham, however, did not imagine that a new house alone could make him happy.
He did not propose to live in idleness and extravagance; for such a life would have been equally incompatible with his habits and his principles.
He was fond of children; and as he had no sons, he determined to adopt one of his relations.
He had two nephews, and he invited both of them to his house, that he might have an opportunity of judging of their dispositions, and of the habits which they had acquired.
Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham's nephews, were about ten years old.
They had been educated very differently.
Hal was the son of the elder branch of the family.
His father was a gentleman, who spent rather more than he could afford; and Hal, from the example of the servants in his father's family, with whom he had passed the first years of his childhood, learned to waste more of everything than he used.
He had been told that " gentlemen should be above being careful and saving ": and he had unfortunately imbibed a notion that extravagance was the sign of a generous disposition, and economy of an avaricious one.
Benjamin, on the contrary, had been taught habits of care and foresight.
His father had but a very small fortune, and was anxious that his son should early learn that economy ensures independence, and sometimes puts it in the power of those who are not very rich to be very generous.
The morning after these two boys arrived at their uncle's they were eager to see all the rooms in the house.
Mr. Gresham accompanied them, and attended to their remarks and exclamations.
exclaimed Ben, when he read the following words, which were written in large characters over the chimney-piece, in his uncle's spacious kitchen --
repeated his cousin Hal, in rather a contemptuous tone; " I think it looks stingy to servants; and no gentleman's servants, cooks especially, would like to have such a mean motto always staring them in the face.
Ben, who was not so conversant as his cousin in the ways of cooks and gentlemen's servants, made no reply to these observations.
Mr. Gresham was called away whilst his nephews were looking at the other rooms in the house.
Some time afterwards, he heard their voices in the hall.
replied Ben, in a voice of lamentation.
The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them well tied up with good whip cord.
Ben took his parcel to a table, and, after breaking off the sealing wax, began carefully to examine the knot, and then to untie it.
Hal stood still, exactly in the spot where the parcel was put into his hands, and tried first at one corner, and then at another, to pull the string off by force.
why, how did you get yours undone, man?
what's in your parcel?I wonder what is in mine!
I wish I could get this string off-I must cut it.
said Hal, " what signifies a bit of packthread?
what signifies a bit of whip cord!
you can get a bit of whip cord twice as long as that for twopence; and who cares for twopence!
so here it goes," cried Hal, drawing out his knife; and he cut the cord, precipitately, in sundry places.
have you undone the parcels for me?
said Mr. Gresham, opening the parlour door as he spoke.
A few days after this, Mr. Gresham gave to each of his nephews a new top.
said Hal; " these tops have no strings; what shall we do for strings?
With this he soon set up his top, which spun admirably well.
I'll tell you what, I can use the string that goes round my hat!
It soon was worn through, and he split his top by driving the pea too tightly into it.
His cousin Ben let him set up his the next day; but Hal was not more fortunate or more careful when he meddled with other people's things than when he managed his own.
He had scarcely played half an hour before he split it, by driving the peg too violently.
Ben bore this misfortune with good humour.
It happened some time afterwards that a lady, who had been intimately acquainted with Hal's mother at Bath-that is to say, who had frequently met her at the card-table during the winter-now arrived at Clifton.
She was informed by his mother that Hal was at Mr. Gresham's, and her sons, who were FRIENDS of his, came to see him, and invited him to spend the next day with them.
Hal joyfully accepted the invitation.
He was always glad to go out to dine, because it gave him something to do, something to think of, or at least something to say.
Besides this, he had been educated to think it was a fine thing to visit fine people; and Lady Diana Sweepstakes (for that was the name of his mother's acquaintance) was a very fine lady, and her two sons intended to be very great gentlemen.
He was in a prodigious hurry when these young gentlemen knocked at his uncle's door the next day; but just as he got to the hall door, little Patty called to him from the top of the stairs, and told him that he had dropped his pocket-handkerchief.
before she reached the handkerchief, she fell, rolling down a whole flight of stairs, and when her fall was at last stopped by the landing-place, she did not cry out, she writhed, as if she was in great pain.
said Mr. Gresham, who came instantly, on hearing the noise of someone falling downstairs.
I've lost one of my shoes," said she.
Ben looked for it upon the stairs, and he found it sticking in a loop of whip cord, which was entangled round one of the bannisters.
When this cord was drawn forth, it appeared that it was the very same jagged, entangled piece which Hal had pulled off his parcel.
He had diverted himself with running up and downstairs, whipping the bannisters with it, as he thought he could convert it to no better use; and, with his usual carelessness, he at last left it hanging just where he happened to throw it when the dinner bell rang.
Poor little Patty's ankle was terribly strained, and Hal reproached himself for his folly, and would have reproached himself longer, perhaps, if Lady Di Sweepstakes'sons had not hurried him away.
In the evening, Patty could not run about as she used to do; but she sat upon the sofa, and she said, that she did not feel the pain of her ankle SO MUCH, whilst Ben was so good as to play at JACK STRAWS with her.
Hal, however, was not precisely of his uncle's opinion: for when he returned in the evening, and saw Ben playing with his little cousin, he could not help smiling contemptuously, and asked if he had been playing at cat's cradle all night.
In a heedless manner he made some inquiries after Patty's sprained ankle, and then he ran on to tell all the news he had heard at Lady Diana Sweepstakes 'news which he thought would make him appear a person of vast importance.
I wish the fortnight was over; I shall think of nothing else, I know, till that happy day comes!
Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of September was to be so much happier than any other day in the year.
cried Hal, " but you shall hear.
There's to be a race upon the Downs on the first of September, and after the race, there's to be an archery meeting for the ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes is to be one of THEM.
And after the ladies have done shooting-now, Ben, comes the best part of it!
we boys are to have our turn, and Lady Di is to give a prize to the best marksman amongst us, of a very handsome bow and arrow!
Do you know, I've been practising already, and I'll show you, to-morrow, as soon as it comes home, the FAMOUS bow and arrow that Lady Diana has given me; but, perhaps," added he, with a scornful laugh, " you like a cat's cradle better than a bow and arrow.
Ben made no reply to this taunt at the moment; but the next day, when Hal's new bow and arrow came home, he convinced him that he knew how to use it very well.
I'll give you a bow and arrow, and, perhaps, if you practise, you may make yourself an archer before the first of September; and, in the meantime, you will not wish the fortnight to be over, for you will have something to do.
said Mr. Gresham, who was almost stunned by the rapid vociferation with which this long speech about a uniform was pronounced.
exclaimed Hal, with amazement painted in his countenance.
I know a gentleman whose sons are to be at this archery meeting, and we will inquire into all the particulars from him.
Then, after we have seen him (it is not eleven o'clock yet) we shall have time enough to walk on to Bristol, and choose the cloth for Ben's uniform, if it is necessary.
or else you'll be a great fool, I know, after all I've told you.
How can anyone in the world know so much about the matter as I, who have dined with Lady Diana Sweepstakes but yesterday, and heard all about it from beginning to end?
And as for this gentleman that we are going to, I'm sure, if he knows anything about the matter, he'll say exactly the same as I do.
All that can be done, my dear boys, in these difficult cases, is to judge for yourselves, which opinions, and which people, are the most reasonable.
All the world do not agree in opinion about characters: you will hear the same person admired in one company, and blamed in another; so that we must still come round to the same point,'Judge for yourself.'
Hal's thoughts were, however, at present too full of the uniform to allow his judgment to act with perfect impartiality.
As soon as their visit was over, and all the time they walked down the hill from Prince's Building's towards Bristol, he continued to repeat nearly the same arguments, which he had formerly used, respecting necessity, the uniform, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes.
pointing to a confectioner's shop.
His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews act without restraint, that he might judge their characters, bid them do as they pleased.
Contrary to his cousin's surmise, he happened to have two pennyworth of halfpence actually in his pocket.
Hal came out of Mr. Millar's, the confectioner's shop, with a hatful of cakes in his hand.
Mr. Millar's dog was sitting on the flags before the door, and he looked up with a wistful, begging eye at Hal, who was eating a queen cake.
Hal, who was wasteful even in his good-nature, threw a whole queen cake to the dog, who swallowed it for a single mouthful.
and he was going to fling it from him into the river.
Take it; for it has made me sick, and I don't care what becomes of it.
Ben folded the refuse bit of his cousin's bun in a piece of paper, and put it into his pocket.
However, with all my heart, let us take a coach, for Ben asked me to show him the cathedral yesterday; and I believe I should find it rather too much for me to walk so far, though I am not sick with eating good things.
said Hal, after he had been seated in the coach about a quarter of an hour, and had somewhat recovered from his sickness --" the cathedral!
Why, are we only going to Bristol to see the cathedral?
I thought we came out to see about a uniform.
There was a dulness and melancholy kind of stupidity in Hal's countenance as he pronounced these words, like one wakening from a dream, which made both his uncle and his cousin burst out a-laughing.
Cannot we see a uniform and a cathedral both in one morning?
They went first to the cathedral.
Hal's head was too full of the uniform to take any notice of the painted window, which immediately caught Ben's embarrassed attention.
He looked at the large stained figures on the Gothic window, and he observed their coloured shadows on the floor and walls.
Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was eager on all subjects to gain information, took this opportunity of telling him several things about the lost art of painting on glass, Gothic arches, etc., which Hal thought extremely tiresome.
we shall be late indeed," said Hal; " surely you've looked long enough, Ben, at this blue and red window.
cried Ben, " did you hear that noise?
They all listened; and they heard a bird singing in the cathedral.
They say he is fifteen years old; and he is so tame, poor fellow!
that if I had a bit of bread he'd come down and feed in my hand.
The lad crumbled the bun, and called to the robin, who fluttered and chirped, and seemed rejoiced at the sight of the bread; but yet he did not come down from his pinnacle on the organ.
He is used enough to eat afore company.
Time was he'd have come down for me before ever so many fine folks, and have eat his crumbs out of my hand, at my first call; but, poor fellow!
He does not know me now, sir, since my accident, because of this great black patch.
The young man put his hand to his right eye, which was covered with a huge black patch.
Ben asked what ACCIDENT he meant; and the lad told him that, but a few weeks ago, he had lost the sight of his eye by the stroke of a stone, which reached him as he was passing under the rocks at Clifton unluckily when the workmen were blasting.
This is the house; is not it?
said Ben, when they went out of the cathedral.
They went into the house; it was rather a hovel than a house; but, poor as it was, it was as neat as misery could make it.
The old woman was sitting up in her wretched bed, winding worsted; four meagre, ill-clothed, pale children were all busy, some of them sticking pins in paper for the pin-maker, and others sorting rags for the paper-maker.
said Hal, sighing; " I did not know there were such shocking places in the world.
I've often seen terrible-looking, tumble-down places, as we drove through the town in mamma's carriage; but then I did not know who lived in them; and I never saw the inside of any of them.
It is very dreadful, indeed, to think that people are forced to live in this way.
I wish mamma would send me some more pocket-money, that I might do something for them.
I had half a crown; but," continued he, feeling in his pockets, " I'm afraid I spent the last shilling of it this morning upon those cakes that made me sick.
I wish I had my shilling now, I'd give it to these poor people.
Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as sorry as his talkative cousin for all these poor people.
But there was some difference between the sorrow of these two boys.
cried he, as he jumped eagerly out of the coach, when his uncle stopped at the woollen-draper's door.
I'm very much obliged to you; but I would rather not have one.
I have a very good coat, and I think it would be waste.
may tempt you to change your mind.
The green cloth, and the white cloth, and the epaulettes were produced, to Hal's infinite satisfaction.
His uncle took up a pen, and calculated for a few minutes; then, showing the back of the letter, upon which he was writing, to his nephews, " Cast up these sums, boys," said he, " and tell me whether I am right.
Ben WAS, and he went over his uncle's calculation very expeditiously.
We sha'n't want greatcoats YET.
and winter will come, though it is not come yet-I am sure, I should like to have a good warm great-coat very much.
Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse and he placed three of them before Hal, and three before Ben.
Now I will lay out this money for you just as you please.
said Hal, sighing, as he looked at the epaulettes, " uncle, if you would not be displeased, if I choose the uniform --
To all this conclusive, conditional reasoning, which depended upon the word PERHAPS, three times repeated, Mr. Gresham made no reply; but he immediately bought the uniform for Hal, and desired that it should be sent to Lady Diana Sweepstakes'son's tailor, to be made up.
The measure of Hal's happiness was now complete.
said Mr. Gresham; " speak, what do you wish for first?
Gresham bought the coat; and, after it was paid for, five-and-twenty shillings of Ben's three guineas remained.
I'm glad you are so exact, however.
It is better to claim less than more than what is promised.
The three arrows you shall have.
But go on; how shall I dispose of these five-and-twenty shillings for you?
Choose the poor, blind boy's coat, my dear nephew, and pay for it.
There's no occasion for my praising you about the matter.
Your best reward is in your own mind, child; and you want no other, or I'm mistaken.
Now, jump into the coach, boys, and let's be off.
We shall be late, I'm afraid," continued he, as the coach drove on: " but I must let you stop, Ben, with your goods, at the poor boy's door.
When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham opened the coach door, and Ben jumped out with his parcel under his arm.
you must take me with you," said his pleased uncle; " I like to see people made happy, as well as you do.
I almost wish my uniform was not gone to the tailor's, so I do.
And when he saw the look of delight and gratitude with which the poor boy received the clothes which Ben gave him; and when he heard the mother and children thank him, he sighed, and said, " Well, I hope mamma will give me some more pocket money soon.
Upon his return home, however, the sight of the FAMOUS bow and arrow, which Lady Diana Sweepstakes had sent him, recalled to his imagination all the joys of his green and white uniform; and he no longer wished that it had not been sent to the tailor's.
You say famous very often; and I don't know exactly what it means; a famous uniform-famous doings.
I remember you said there are to be famous doings, the first of September, upon the Downs.
It meansit is a word that people say-it is the fashion to say it-it means-it means famous.
Patty laughed, and said, " This does not explain it to me.
Everybody but little children, I suppose, understands it; but there's no explaining THOSE SORT of words, if you don't TAKE THEM at once.
There's to be famous doings upon the Downs, the first of September; that is grand, fine.
In short, what does it signify talking any longer, Patty, about the matter?
Give me my bow, for I must go out upon the Downs and practise.
Ben accompanied him with the bow and the three arrows which his uncle had now given to him; and, every day, these two boys went out upon the Downs and practised shooting with indefatigable perseverance.
Where equal pains are taken, success is usually found to be pretty nearly equal.
Our two archers, by constant practice, became expert marksmen; and before the day of trial, they were so exactly matched in point of dexterity, that it was scarcely possible to decide which was superior.
The long expected lst of September at length arrived.
was the first question that was asked by Hal and Ben the moment that they wakened.
The sun shone bright, but there was a sharp and high wind.
said Ben, " I shall be glad of my good great-coat to-day; for I've a notion it will be rather cold upon the Downs, especially when we are standing still, as we must, whilst all the people are shooting.
I don't think I shall feel it cold at all," said Hal, as he dressed himself in his new green and white uniform; and he viewed himself with much complacency.
said he, in a voice of exultation, when he entered the breakfast-room.
seemed rather to mean, " How do you like me in my uniform?
And his uncle's cool, " Very well, I thank you, Hal," disappointed him, as it seemed only to say, " Your uniform makes no difference in my opinion of you.
Even little Patty went on eating her breakfast much as usual, and talked of the pleasure of walking with her father to the Downs, and of all the little things which interested her; so that Hal's epaulettes were not the principal object in anyone's imagination but his own.
My ankle is entirely well, and I'm glad of that, or else I should not be able to walk so far as the Downs.
How good you were to me, Ben, when I was in pain the day I sprained my ankle!
You played at jack straws and at cat's-cradle with me.
Oh, that puts me in mind-here are your gloves which I asked you that night to let me mend.
I've been a great while about them; but are not they not very neatly mended, papa?
The white teeth are not quite even.
I observe, for instance, that you are a grateful little girl, and that you are glad to be of use to those who have been kind to you; and for this I forgive you the long stitch.
I was just wishing I had a pair of gloves to keep my fingers warm to-day, for I never can shoot well when my hands are benumbed.
Look, Hal; you know how ragged these gloves were; you said they were good for nothing but to throw away; now look, there's not a hole in them," said he, spreading his fingers.
Well, the young Sweepstakes and Lady Diana will talk enough about it; that's one comfort.
Is not it time to think of setting out, sir?
Mr. Stephen, the butler, here interrupted the hurrying young gentleman in his calculations.
I told him they were just going out with you; but he says he won't detain them more than half a minute.
he looked at you first, Ben-and well he may!
The boy bowed, without any cringing servility, but with an open, decent freedom in his manner, which expressed that he had been obliged, but that he knew his young benefactor was not thinking of the obligation.
He made as little distinction as possible between his bows to the two cousins.
He held the balls to Ben and Hal.
I cut the cork round for the inside myself, which was all I could do.
The balls struck the floor with a delightful sound, and rebounded higher than Mr. Gresham's head.
Little Patty clapped her hands joyfully.
But now a thundering double rap at the door was heard.
I am not sure I'm right, sir; for both the young gentlemen spoke at once, and the wind is very high at the street door; so that I could not well make out all they said; but I believe this is the sense of it.
I know that is just what was settled the day I dined at Lady Diana's; and Lady Diana and a great party of gentlemen are to ride --
Decide-do you choose to go with them or with us?
Uniform, if you mean to go," said Mr. Gresham.
Hal ran downstairs in such a hurry that he forgot his bow and arrows.
Ben discovered this when he went to fetch his own; and the lad from Bristol, who had been ordered by Mr. Gresham to eat his breakfast before he proceeded to Redland Chapel, heard Ben talking about his cousin's bow and arrows.
I shall be much obliged to you," said Ben; and away went the boy with the bow that was ornamented with green ribands.
The public walk leading to the Wells was full of company.
The windows of all the houses in St. Vincent's Parade were crowded with well dressed ladies, who were looking out in expectation of the archery procession.
Parties of gentlemen and ladies, and a motley crowd of spectators, were seen moving backwards and forwards, under the rocks, on the opposite side of the water.
A barge, with coloured streamers flying, was waiting to take up a party who were going upon the water.
The bargemen rested upon their oars, and gazed with broad faces of curiosity upon the busy scene that appeared upon the public walk.
The archers and archeresses were now drawn up on the flags under the semicircular piazza just before Mrs. Yearsley's library.
A little band of children, who had been mustered by Lady Diana Sweepstakes'SPIRITED EXERTIONS, closed the procession.
They were now all in readiness.
The drummer only waited for her ladyship's signal; and the archers'corps only waited for her ladyship's word of command to march.
said her ladyship to Hal, as she reviewed her Lilliputian regiment.
Hal had despatched a messenger for his forgotten bow, but the messenger returned not.
He looked from side to side in great distress --" Oh, there's my bow coming, I declare!
cried he; " look, I see the bow and the ribands.
Look now, between the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, on the Hotwell Walk; it is coming!
Don't follow so close, now, as if you belonged to us, pray.
The poor boy had no ambition to partake the triumph; he FELL BACK as soon as he understood the meaning of the lady's words.
The drum beat, the fife played, the archers marched, the spectators admired.
Hal stepped proudly, and felt as if the eyes of the whole universe were upon his epaulettes, or upon the facings of his uniform; whilst all the time he was considered only as part of a show.
The walk appeared much shorter than usual, and he was extremely sorry that Lady Diana, when they were half-way up the hill leading to Prince's Place, mounted her horse, because the road was dirty, and all the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied her followed her example.
She beckoned: and Hal, who was foremost, and proud to show his alacrity, ran on to receive her ladyship's orders.
cried he, as he ran after it.
As he stopped to pick it up, he let go his hat, which he had hitherto held on with anxious care; for the hat, though it had a fine green and white cockade, had no band or string round it.
The string, as we may recollect, our wasteful hero had used in spinning his top.
The hat was too large for his head without this band; a sudden gust of wind blew it off.
Lady Diana's horse started and reared.
She was a FAMOUS horse woman, and sat him to the admiration of all beholders; but there was a puddle of red clay and water in this spot, and her ladyship's uniform habit was a sufferer by the accident.
said she, " why can't he keep his hat upon his head?
In the meantime, the wind blew the hat down the hill, and Hal ran after it amidst the laughter of his kind friends, the young Sweepstakes, and the rest of the little regiment.
The hat was lodged, at length, upon a bank.
Hal pursued it: he thought this bank was hard, but, alas!
the moment he set his foot upon it the foot sank.
He tried to draw it back; his other foot slipped, and he fell prostrate, in his green and white uniform, into the treacherous bed of red mud.
His companions, who had halted upon the top of the hill, stood laughing, spectators of his misfortune.
It happened that the poor boy with the black patch upon his eye, who had been ordered by Lady Diana to " fall back " and to " keep at a distance," was now coming up the hill; and the moment he saw our fallen hero, he hastened to his assistance.
He dragged poor Hal, who was a deplorable spectacle, out of the red mud.
The obliging mistress of a lodging house, as soon as she understood that the young gentleman was nephew to Mr. Gresham, to whom she had formerly let her house, received Hal, covered as he was with dirt.
The poor Bristol lad hastened to Mr. Gresham's for clean stockings and shoes for Hal.
He was unwilling to give up his uniform: it was rubbed and rubbed, and a spot here and there was washed out; and he kept continually repeating-" When it's dry it will all brush off-when it's dry it will all brush off, won't it?
I shall lose my turn to shoot; oh, give me the coat; I don't mind how it is, if I can but get it on.
Holding it nearer and nearer to the fire dried it quickly, to be sure; but it shrunk it also, so that it was no easy matter to get the coat on again.
However, Hal, who did not see the red splashes, which, in spite of all these operations, were too visible upon his shoulders, and upon the skirts of his white coat behind, was pretty well satisfied to observe that there was not one spot upon the facings.
I think it looks as smart almost as ever!
and under this persuasion our young archer resumed his bow-his bow with green ribands, now no more- and he pursued his way to the Downs.
All his companions were far out of sight.
Hal trudged on as fast as he possibly could.
When he got upon the Downs, he saw numbers of carriages, and crowds of people, all going towards the place of meeting at the Ostrich.
He was at first so much afraid of being late, that he did not take notice of the mirth his motley appearance excited in all beholders.
At length he reached the appointed spot.
There was a great crowd of people.
In the midst he heard Lady Diana's loud voice betting upon someone who was just going to shoot at the mark.
pray let me into the circle!
I'm one of the archers-I am, indeed; don't you see my green and white uniform?
In vain, when he got into the midst of the formidable circle, he looked to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, for their countenance and support.
They were amongst the most unmerciful of the laughers.
Lady Diana also seemed more to enjoy than to pity his confusion.
said she, in her masculine tone.
Don't stand there, in the middle of the circle, or you'll have an arrow in your eyes just now, I've a notion.
Hal looked round in search of better friends.
He was in such confusion, that, amongst the number of faces, he could scarcely distinguish one from another; but he felt somebody at this moment pull his elbow, and, to his great relief, he heard the friendly voice, and saw the good natured face of his Cousin Ben.
Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uniform with the rough great-coat which he had formerly despised.
Shoot away, Hal; but first understand our laws; we settled them before you came upon the green.
You are to have three shots, with your own bow and your own arrows; and nobody's to borrow or lend under pretence of other's bows being better or worse, or under any pretence.
This young gentleman had good reasons for being so strict in these laws, as he had observed that none of his companions had such an excellent bow as he had provided for himself.
Some of the boys had forgotten to bring more than one arrow with them, and by his cunning regulation that each person should shoot with their own arrows, many had lost one or two of their shots.
Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his friend spoke.
He little knew how easily acquaintance who call themselves friends can change when their interest comes in the slightest degree in competition with their friendship.
Hurried by his impatient rival, and with his hands so much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how to fix the arrow in the string, he drew the bow.
The arrow was within a quarter of an inch of Master Sweepstakes'mark, which was the nearest that had yet been hit.
Hal seized his second arrow.
But just as he pronounced the word LUCK, and as he bent his bow, the string broke in two, and the bow fell from his hands.
cried Master Sweepstakes, with a triumphant laugh.
You may shoot with your own bow, if you choose it, or you may not, just as you think proper; but you must not lend it, sir.
It was now Ben's turn to make his trial.
His first arrow was not successful.
His second was exactly as near as Hal's first.
Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, prudently examined the string of his bow; and, as he pulled it to try its strength, it cracked.
Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands with loud exultations and insulting laughter.
But his laughter ceased when our provident hero calmly drew from his pocket an excellent piece of whip cord.
exclaimed Hal, when he saw that it was the very same that had tied up the parcel.
He drew his bow the third and last time.
cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark, " it's the nearest; is it not the nearest?
Master Sweepstakes, with anxiety, examined the hit.
The bow, the prize bow, was now delivered to him; and Hal, as he looked at the whip-cord exclaimed, " How LUCKY this whip-cord has been to you, Ben!
It is a good thing to have two strings to one's bow.
LUCY, daughter to the Justice.
MRS. BUSTLE, landlady of the " Saracen's Head.
The House of Justice Headstrong-a hall-Lucy watering some myrtles-A servant behind the scenes is heard to say --
I tell you my master is not up.
You can't see him, so go about your business, I say.
To whom are you speaking, William?
Only an old man, miss, with a complaint for my master.
Oh, then, don't send him away-don't send him away.
But master has not had his chocolate, ma'am.
He won't ever see anybody before he drinks his chocolate, you know, ma'am.
But let the old man, then, come in here.
Perhaps he can wait a little while.
You can't see my master this hour; but miss will let you stay here.
how he trembles as he walks.
My father will see you soon; pray sit down.
You are very good, miss; very good.
I'm afraid this poor myrtle is quite dead-quite dead.
I wonder what can make him sigh so!
My father won't make you wait long.
Old M. Oh, ma'am, as long as he pleases.
I'm in no haste-no haste.
It's only a small matter.
But does a small matter make you sigh so?
Old M. Ah, miss; because, though it is a small matter in itself, it is not a small matter to me (sighing again); it was my all, and I've lost it.
Old M. Why, miss-but I won't trouble you about it.
But it won't trouble me at all-I mean, I wish to hear it; so tell it me.
Old M. Why, miss, I slept last night at the inn here, in town-the " Saracen's Head "--
there is my father coming downstairs; follow me.
You may tell me your story as we go along.
Old M. I slept at the " Saracen's Head," miss, and-(Exit, talking.)
Justice Headstrong's Study.
Well, well, my darling, presently; I'll see him presently.
Whilst you are drinking your chocolate, papa?
No, no, no-I never see anybody till I have done my chocolate, darling.
There's no sugar in this, child.
No, child-there's NO sugar, I tell you; that poz!
Oh, but, papa, I assure you I put in two lumps myself.
There's NO sugar, I say; why will you contradict me, child, for ever?
pshaw- it is not melted, child-it is the same as no sugar!- Oh, my foot, girl, my foot- you kill me.
Go and send William to me; do you hear, love?
I tell you what, I've been plagued ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that old man.
If he can't wait, let him go about his business.
Don't you know, child, I never see anybody till I've drunk my chocolate; and I never will, if it were a duke-that's poz!
Why, it has but just struck twelve; if he can't wait, he can go about his business, can't he?
It was not he who was impatient.
It was only I, papa; don't be angry.
Well, well, well (finishing his cup of chocolate, and pushing his dish away); and at anyrate there was not sugar enough.
Send William, send William, child; and I'll finish my own business, and then-(Exit Lucy, dancing, " And then- and then!")
Oh, this foot of mine-(twinges)Oh, this foot!
Ay, if Dr. Sparerib could cure one of the gout, then, indeed, I should think something of him; but, as to my leaving off my bottle of port, it's nonsense; it's all nonsense; I can't do it; I can't, and won't, for all the Dr. Spareribs in Christendom; that's poz!
what answer, pray, did you bring from the " Saracen's Head "?
Did you see Mrs. Bustle herself, as I bid you?
Yes, sir, I saw the landlady herself; she said she would come up immediately, sir.
Ah, that's well-immediately?
Yes, sir, and I hear her voice below now.
Oh, show her up; show Mrs. Bustle in.
Enter Mrs. BUSTLE, the landlady of the " Saracen's Head.
Good morrow to your worship!
I'm glad to see your worship look so purely.
I came up with all speed (taking breath).
Our pie is in the oven; that was what you sent for me about, I take it.
True; true; sit down, good Mrs. Bustle, pray --
Oh, your worship's always very good (settling her apron).
I came up just as I was-only threw my shawl over me.
I thought your worship would excuse-I'm quite, as it were, rejoiced to see your worship look so purely, and to find you up so hearty --
Oh, I'm very hearty (coughing), always hearty, and thankful for it.
I hope to see many Christmas doings yet, Mrs. Bustle.
And so our pie is in the oven, I think you say?
I put it in with my own hands; and if we have but good luck in the baking, it will be as pretty a goose-pie-though I say it that should not say it-as pretty a goose-pie as ever your worship set your eyes upon.
Will you take a glass of anything this morning, Mrs.
Bustle?I have some nice usquebaugh.
Oh, no, your worship- I thank your worship, though, as much as if I took it; but I just took my luncheon before I came up; or more proper, MY SANDWICH, I should say, for the fashion's sake, to be sure.
A LUNCHEON won't go down with nobody nowadays (laughs).
I expect hostler and boots will be calling for their sandwiches just now (laughs again).
I'm sure I beg your worship's pardon for mentioning a LUNCHEON.
Oh, Mrs. Bustle, the word's a good word, for it means a good thing-ha!
Why, it's past one, I declare; and I thought I was up in remarkably good time, too.
Well, and to be sure so it was, remarkably good time for your worship; but folks in our way must be up betimes, you know.
I've been up and about these seven hours!
Ay, indeed-eight, I might say, for I am an early little body; though I say it that should not say it-I AM an early little body.
An early little body, as you say, Mrs. Bustle; so I shall have my goose-pie for dinner, hey?
For dinner, as sure as the clock strikes four-but I mustn't stay prating, for it may be spoiling if I'm away; so I must wish your worship a good morning.
No ceremony-no ceremony; good Mrs. Bustle, your servant.
Enter William, to take away the chocolate.
The Landlady is putting on her shawl.
You may let that man know, William, that I have dispatched my OWN business, and am at leisure for his now (taking a pinch of snuff).
pray, William (Justice leans back gravely), what sort of a looking fellow is he, pray?
Most like a sort of travelling man, in my opinion, sir-or something that way, I take it,
a sort of a travelling man.
lay my books out open at the title Vagrant; and, William, tell the cook that Mrs. Bustle promises me the goose-pie for dinner.
Four o'clock, do you hear?
And show the old man in now.
My old gentleman, as I hope to breathe!
Come forward, if you please.
Ay, you little thought, I warrant ye, to meet me here with his worship; but there you reckoned without your host-Out of the frying-pan into the fire.
None of your flummery stuff will go down with his worship no more than with me, I give you warning; so you may go further and fare worse, and spare your breath to cool your porridge.
Mrs. Bustle, good Mrs. Bustle, remember where you are.
Come forward, sir, and let me hear what you have to say.
Who and what may you be, friend, and what is your business with me?
Sir, if your worship will give me leave --
Old M. Please, your worship, I am an old soldier.
Mrs. Bustle, pray, I desire, let the man speak.
Old M. For these two years past-ever since, please your worship-I wasn't able to work any longer; for in my youth I did work as well as the best of them.
Let him finish his story, I say.
Ay, do, do, papa, speak for him.
Miss, a good morrow to you, ma'am.
I humbly beg your apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy.
But please your worship, it pleased God to take away the use of my left arm; and since that I have never been able to work.
Mrs. Bustle, I have desired silence, and I will have it, that's poz!
You shall have your turn presently.
Old M. For these two years past (for why should I be ashamed to tell the truth?)
I have lived upon charity, and I scraped together a guinea and a half and upwards, and I was travelling with it to my grandson, in the north, with him to end my days-but (sighing)--
Proceed, pray, to the point.
Old M. But last night I slept here in town, please your worship, at the " Saracen's Head.
At the " Saracen's Head "!
none such ever slept at the " Saracen's Head " afore, or shall afterwards, as long as my name's Bustle, and the " Saracen's Head " is the " Saracen's Head.
Mrs. Landlady, this is downright-I have said you should speak presently.
He SHALL speak first, since I've said it-that's poz!
You slept last night at the " Saracen's Head.
Old M. Yes, please your worship, and I accuse nobody; but at night I had my little money safe, and in the morning it was gone.
Gone- gone, indeed, in my house!
and this is the way I'm to be treated!
I couldn't but speak, your worship, to such an inhuman like, out o'the way, scandalous charge, if King George and all the Royal Family were sitting in your worship's chair, beside you, to silence me (turning to the Old Man).
And this is your gratitude, forsooth!
Didn't you tell me that any hole in my house was good enough for you, wheedling hypocrite?
And the thanks I receive is to call me and mine a pack of thieves.
Old M. Oh, no, no, no, NO-a pack of thieves, by no means.
Ay, I thought when _I_ came to speak we should have you upon your marrow-bones in --
Five times have I commanded silence, and five times in vain; and I won't command anything five times in vain-THAT'S POZ!
Then, your worship, I don't see any business I have to be waiting here; the folks want me at home (returning and whispering).
Shall I send the goose-pie up, your worship, if it's ready?
I care not for the goose-pie, Mrs. Bustle.
Do not talk to me of goose-pies; this is no place to talk of pies.
Oh, for that matter, your worship knows best, to be sure.
JUSTICE HEADSTRONG, OLD MAN and LUCY.
Ah, now, I'm glad he can speak; now tell papa; and you need not be afraid to speak to him, for he is very good-natured.
Don't contradict him, though, because he told ME not.
Oh, darling, YOU shall contradict me as often as you please-only not before I've drunk my chocolate, child-hey!
Go on, my good friend; you see what it is to live in Old England, where, thank Heaven, the poorest of His Majesty's subjects may have justice, and speak his mind before the first in the land.
Now speak on; and you hear she tells you that you need not be afraid of me.
Old M. I thank your worship, I'm sure.
I won't be thanked for doing justice, sir; so-but explain this matter.
You lost your money, hey, at the " Saracen's Head "?
You had it safe last night, hey?and you missed it this morning?
Are you sure you had it safe at night?
Old M. Oh, please your worship, quite sure; for I took it out and looked at it just before I said my prayers.
Pray, my good friend, where might you put your money when you went to bed?
Old M. Please, your worship, where I always put it-always-in my tobacco-box.
I never heard of such a thing-to make a STRONG BOX of a tobacco-box.
hum- and you say the box and all were gone in the morning?
Old M. No, please your worship, no; not the box-the box was never stirred from the place where I put it.
Tut, tut, tut, man- took the money and left the box?
I'll never believe that anyone could be such a fool.
It's well you are not upon oath.
Old M. If I were, please your worship, I should say the same; for it is the truth.
Don't tell me, don't tell me; I say the thing is impossible.
Old M. Please, your worship, here's the box.
it's no such thing; it's no such thing, I say-no man would take the money and leave the tobacco-box.
Nothing shall make me believe it ever-that's poz.
Lucy (takes the box, and holds it up before her father's eyes).
You did not see the box, did you, papa!
Yes, yes, yes, child-nonsense!
it's all a lie from beginning to end.
A man who tells one lie will tell a hundred.
Old M. If your worship would give me leave --
Sir, it does not signify-it does not signify!
I've said it, I've said it, and that's enough to convince me, and I'll tell you more; if my Lord Chief Justice of England told it to me, I would not believe it-that's poz!
Lucy (still playing with the box).
But how comes the box here, I wonder?
Go to your dolls, darling, and don't be positive-go to your dolls, and don't talk of what you don't understand.
What can you understand, I want to know, of the law?
No, papa, I didn't mean about the law, but about the box; because, if the man had taken it, how could it be here, you know, papa?
Well, sir;, and what do you say now about the box?
Old M. Please, your worship, with submission, I CAN say nothing but what I said before.
What, contradict me again, after I gave you time to recollect yourself!
I've done with you; I have done.
Contradict me as often as you please, but you cannot impose upon me; I defy you to impose upon me!
I know the law- I know the law- and I'll make you know it, too.
One hour I'll give you to recollect yourself, and if you don't give up this idle story, I'll-I'll commit you as a vagrant-that's poz!
William, take him into the servants'hall, do you hear?What, take the money and leave the box?
I'll never do it-that's poz!
don't be frightened- I mean, you tell the truth, never be frightened.
Old M. IF I tell the truth --(turning up his eyes).
One moment-answer me one question-because of something that just came into my head.
Was the box shut fast when you left it?
Old M. No, miss, no- open-it was open; for I could not find the lid in the dark-my candle went out.
Justice's Study-the Justice is writing.
Well- I shall have but few days'more misery in this world!
why-why then, why will you be so positive to persist in a lie?
Take the money and leave the box!
Here, William (showing the committal), take this old gentleman to Holdfast, the constable, and give him this warrant.
Enter Lucy, running, out of breath.
Here, old man; here's your money-here it is all-a guinea and a half, and a shilling and a sixpence, just as he said, papa.
your worship, did you ever hear the like?
I've heard nothing yet that I can understand.
First, have you secured the thief, I say?
Lucy (makes signs to the landlady to be silent).
Yes, yes, yes- we have him safe-we have him prisoner.
Yes, child, by all means; and now I shall hear what possessed him to leave the box.
I don't understand-there's something deep in all this; I don't understand it.
Now I do desire, Mrs. Landlady, nobody may speak a single word whilst I am cross-examining the thief.
Re-enter Lucy, with a huge wicker cage in her hand, containing a magpie-The Justice drops the committal out of his hand.
Hey- what, Mrs. Landlady-the old magpie?
Ay, your worship, my old magpie.
Miss was very clever; it was she caught the thief.
Ay, darling, her father's own child!
Caught the thief, WITH THE MAINOUR, hey?
Tell us all; I will hear all-that's poz!
then first I must tell you how I came to suspect Mr. Magpie.
Do you remember, papa, that day last summer, when I went with you to the bowling-green, at the " Saracen's Head "?
Oh, of all days in the year!
It's a pity, child, you are not upon the Bench; ha!
And when I went to his old hiding place, there it was; but you see, papa, he did not take the box.
because the thief was a magpie.
No MAN would have taken the money and left the box.
You see I was right; no MAN would have left the box, hey?
Certainly not, I suppose; but I'm so very glad, old man, that you have obtained your money.
Well then, child, here-take my purse, and add that to it.
We were a little too hasty with the committal-hey?
Ay, and I fear I was, too; but when one is touched about the credit of one's house, one's apt to speak warmly.
Old M. Oh, I'm the happiest old man alive!
You are all convinced that I told you no lies.
Miss, you have made me the happiest man alive!
Well now, I'll tell you what.
I know what I think-you must keep that there magpie, and make a show of him, and I warrant he'll bring you many an honest penny; for it's a TRUE STORY, and folks would like to hear it, I hopes --
And, friend, do you hear?
you'll dine here today, you'll dine here.
We have some excellent ale.
I will have you drink my health-that's poz- hey?
You'll drink my health, won't you-hey?
and the young lady's, if you please.
Ay, ay, drink her health-she deserves it.
Ay, drink my darling's health.
And please your worship, it's the right time, I believe, to speak of the goose-pie now; and a charming pie it is, and it's on the table.
And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.
Then let us say no more; but do justice immediately to the goose-pie; and, darling, put me in mind to tell this story after dinner.
Mr. and Mrs. Montague spent the summer of the year 1795 at Clifton with their son Frederick, and their two daughters Sophia and Marianne.
They had taken much care of the education of their children; nor were they ever tempted, by any motive of personal convenience or temporary amusement, to hazard the permanent happiness of their pupils.
For the above reasons, Mr. and Mrs. Montague were particularly cautious in the choice of their acquaintances, as they were well aware that whatever passed in conversation before children became part of their education.
When they came to Clifton they wished to have a house entirely to themselves, but, as they came late in the season, almost all the lodging houses were full, and for a few weeks they were obliged to remain in a house where some of the apartments were already occupied.
During the first fortnight they scarcely saw or heard anything of one of the families who lodged on the same floor with them.
An elderly quaker, and his sister Bertha, were their silent neighbours.
The blooming complexion of the lady had indeed attracted the attention of the children, as they caught a glimpse of her face when she was getting into her carriage to go out upon the Downs.
They could scarcely believe that she came to the Wells on account of her health.
Besides her blooming complexion, the delicate white of her garments had struck them with admiration; and they observed that her brother carefully guarded her dress from the wheel of the carriage, as he handed her in.
From this circumstance, and from the benevolent countenance of the old gentleman, they concluded that he was very fond of his sister, and that they were certainly very happy, except that they never spoke, and could be seen only for a moment.
Not so the maiden lady who occupied the ground floor.
On the stairs, in the passages, at her window, she was continually visible; and she appeared to possess the art of being present in all these places at once.
Her voice was eternally to be heard, and it was not particularly melodious.
No person at the Wells was oftener at home and abroad than Mrs. Tattle.
She had, as she deemed it, the happiness to have a most extensive acquaintance residing at Clifton.
She had for years kept a register of arrivals.
The name of Montague, at all events, she knew was a good name, and justified in courting the acquaintance.
She courted it first by nods, and becks and smiles at Marianne whenever she met her; and Marianne, who was a very little girl, began presently to nod and smile in return, persuaded that a lady who smiled so much, could not be ill-natured.
Besides, Mrs. Theresa's parlour door was sometimes left more than half open, to afford a view of a green parrot.
Marianne sometimes passed very slowly by this door.
One morning it was left quite wide open, when she stopped to say " Pretty Poll "; and immediately Mrs. Tattle begged she would do her the honour to walk in and see " Pretty Poll," at the same time taking the liberty to offer her a piece of iced plum-cake.
Having thus happily accomplished her first visit, there seemed little probability of escaping Mrs. Tattle's further acquaintance.
This alarming whisper could not, however, have a permanent effect upon Mrs. Montague's understanding, because three days afterwards Mrs. Theresa, upon the most anxious inspection, entirely mistook the just and natural proportions of the hip and shoulder.
The medical opinion of a lady of so much anatomical precision could not have much weight.
All Mrs. Theresa Tattle's suggestions being lost upon these stoical parents, her powers were next tried upon the children, and her success soon became apparent.
On Sophy, indeed, she could not make any impression, though she had expended on her some of her finest strokes of flattery.
Sophy, though very desirous of the approbation of her friends, was not very desirous of winning the favour of strangers.
Sophy, whose taste had been cultivated at the same time with her powers of reasoning, was not liable to fall into these errors.
This word FASHIONABLE, Mrs. Theresa Tattle knew, had usually a great effect, even at thirteen; but she had not observed that it had much power upon Sophy; nor were her remarks concerning grace and manners much attended to.
said Mrs. Tattle, to herself, " if I had such a tall daughter, and so unformed, before my eyes from morning to night, it would certainly break my poor heart.
Thank heaven, I am not a mother!
if I were, Miss Marianne for me!
Nobody loves anybody for being handsome, but for being good.
Mrs. Theresa had seldom said to Frederick Montague, " that he had a vast deal of drollery, and was a most incomparable mimic;" but she had said so of him in whispers, which magnified the sound to his imagination, if not to his ear.
He was a boy of much vivacity, and had considerable abilities; but his appetite for vulgar praise had not yet been surfeited.
Even Mrs. Theresa Tattle's flattery pleased him, and he exerted himself for her entertainment so much that he became quite a buffoon.
Instead of observing characters and manners, that he might judge of them, and form his own, he now watched every person he saw, that he might detect some foible, or catch some singularity in their gesture or pronunciation, which he might successfully mimic.
Alarmed by the rapid progress of these evils, Mr. and Mrs. Montague, who, from the first day that they had been honoured with Mrs. Tattle's visit, had begun to look out for new lodgings, were now extremely impatient to decamp.
They were not people who, from the weak fear of offending a silly acquaintance, would hazard the happiness of their family.
They had heard of a house in the country which was likely to suit them, and they determined to go directly to look at it.
As they were to be absent all day, they foresaw that their officious neighbour would probably interfere with their children.
They did not choose to exact any promise from them which they might be tempted to break, and therefore they only said at parting, " If Mrs. Theresa Tattle should ask you to come to her, do as you think proper.
Scarcely had Mrs. Montague's carriage got out of hearing when a note was brought, directed to " Frederick Montague, Junior, Esq.," which he immediately opened, and read as follows:--
She therefore trusts Mr. Frederick will not refuse to come and make her laugh.
Mrs. Theresa has taken care to provide a few macaroons for her little favourite, who said she was particularly fond of them the other day.
Mrs. Theresa hopes they will all come at six, or before, not forgetting Miss Sophy, if she will condescend to be of the party.
Then twisting the note in his fingers, he appealed to Sophy:--
So I think we might as well go, because we could not refuse, if we would, I say.
no," cried Frederick --" could, would, should, might, and ought, are all the same thing in the Latin grammar; all of'em signs of the potential mood, you know.
If I choose to call my hat my cadwallader, you would understand me just as well, after I had once explained it to you, that by cadwallader I meant this black thing that I put upon my head; cadwallader and hat would then be just the same thing to you.
said Sophy; " and what has this to do with'could'and'should '?
Do keep to the point, Sophy, and don't dispute with me.
Women have no business to do either; for, how should they know how to chop logic like men?
At this contemptuous sarcasm upon her sex, Sophy's colour rose.
cried Frederick, exulting, " now we shall see a philosopheress in a passion; I'd give sixpence, half-price, for a harlequin entertainment, to see Sophy in a passion.
Now, Marianne, look at her brush dabbing so fast in the water!
Sophy, who could not easily bear to be laughed at, with some little indignation, said, " Brother, I wish --
cried Frederick, pointing to the colour which rose in her cheeks almost to her temples --" rising!
Leave the thermometer to itself a little while.
It will come down to'temperate'by the time you look again.
cried Marianne, " she's so good-humoured, don't tease her any more, and don't draw heads upon her paper, and don't stretch her india-rubber, and don't let us dirty any more of her brushes.
the sides of her tumbler are all manner of colours.
But she is temperate now, and I won't plague her; she shall chop logic, if she likes it, though she is a woman.
I'm sure Sophy found out how to tie that difficult knot, which papa showed us yesterday, long before you did, though you are a man.
Besides, she understood the'Rule of Three,' which was no conjuring trick, better than you did, though she is a woman; and she can reason, too, mamma says.
inquired Sophy, looking up again, very gravely.
but I am not talking Greek and Latin, am I?
said little Marianne, laughing.
Women who are always drawing and reasoning, never know how to make puddings.
Mrs. Theresa Tattle said so, when I showed her Sophy's beautiful drawing yesterday.
Cannot I learn them as she did?
but she would," cried Marianne, eagerly: " and a great deal more exactly, for mamma has taught her to weigh and measure things very carefully: and when I was ill she always weighed the bark in nicely, and dropped my drops so carefully: better than the cook.
When mamma took me down to see the cook make a cake once, I saw her spoonfuls, and her ounces, and her handfuls: she dashed and splashed without minding exactness or the recipe, or anything.
I'm sure Sophy would make a much better pudding, if exactness only were wanting.
I say she never would: so it comes to the same thing.
how can you tell that, brother?
Do you think she would ever jump up, with all her nicety, too, and put by all these things, to go down into the greasy kitchen, and plump up to the elbows in suet, like a cook, for a plum-pudding?
Oh, brother, she can do anything; and she could make the best plum-pudding in the whole world, I'm sure, in a minute, if it were necessary.
A knock at the door, from Mrs. Theresa Tattle's servant, recalled Marianne to the business of the day.
It's necessary to think of that in a minute.
The servant came with his mistress'compliments, to let the young ladies and Mr. Frederick know that she was waiting tea for them.
then we must go," said Frederick.
The servant opened the door wider, to let him pass, and Marianne thought she must follow her brother: so they went downstairs together, while Sophy gave her own message to the servant, and quietly stayed at her usual occupations.
Mrs. Tattle was seated at her tea-table, with a large plate of macaroons beside her when Frederick and Marianne entered.
She was " delighted " they were come, and " grieved " not to see Miss Sophy along with them.
Now, my dear, what shall I help you to?
she never calls him my dear, you know, but always Doctor.
Well then, doctor, what will you eat to-day?
I don't see anything here I can eat, ma'am.
Here's eels, sir; let me help you to some eel-stewed eel- you used to be fond of stewed eel.
But I'm sick of stewed eels.
You would tire one of anything.
Am I to see nothing but eels?
And what's this at the bottom?
Mutton, doctor, roast mutton; if you'll be so good as to cut it.
I can't cut it, I say; it's as hard as a deal board.
You might as well tell me to cut the table, ma'am.
Here, take it away; take it downstairs to the cook.
It's a very hard case, Mrs. Carbuncle, that I can never have a bit of anything that I can eat at my own table, Mrs. Carbuncle, since I was married, ma'am, I that am the easiest man in the whole world to please about my dinner.
It's really very extraordinary, Mrs. Carbuncle!
What have you at that corner there, under the cover?
Patties, sir; oyster patties.
Not worth putting under a cover, ma'am.
And why not have glass covers, that one may see one's dinner before one, before it grows cold with asking questions, Mrs. Carbuncle, and lifting up covers?
But nobody has any sense: and I see no water plates anywhere, lately.
Do, pray, doctor, let me help you to a bit of chicken before it gets cold, my dear.
exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, with rapture.
Well, ma'am, then if I must eat something, send me a bit of fowl; a leg and wing, the liver wing, and a bit of the breast, oyster sauce, and a slice of that ham, if you please, ma'am.
Here; a plate, knife and fork, bit o'bread, a glass of Dorchester ale!
exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, clapping her hands.
A sad prospect, after her husband's death, to look forward to, instead of being comfortable, as her friends expected; and she, poor young thing!
knowing no better when they married her!
People should look into these things, beforehand, or never marry at all, I say, Miss Marianne.
Miss Marianne, who did not clearly comprehend this affair of the jointure, or the reason why Mrs. Carbuncle would be so unhappy after her husband's death, turned to Frederick, who was at that instant studying Mrs. Theresa as a future character to mimic.
Pray, Miss Croker, favour us with a song.
Mrs. Theresa Tattle has never had the pleasure of hearing you sing; she's quite impatient to hear you sing.
Frederick put his hands before him affectedly; " Oh, indeed, ma'am!
I really am so hoarse, it distresses me so to be pressed to sing; besides, upon my word, I have quite left off singing.
I've never sung once, except for very particular people, this winter.
But Mrs. Theresa Tattle is a very particular person.
I'm sure you'll sing for her.
Certainly, ma'am, I allow that you use a powerful argument; but I assure you now, I would do my best to oblige you, but I absolutely have forgotten all my English songs.
Nobody hears anything but Italian now, and I have been so giddy as to leave my Italian music behind me.
Besides, I make it a rule never to hazard myself without an accompaniment.
Oh, try, Miss Croker, for once.
Violante in the pantry, Gnawing of a mutton-bone; How she gnawed it, How she claw'd it, When she found herself alone!
exclaimed Mrs. Tattle; " so like Miss Croker, I'm sure I shall think of you, Mr. Frederick, when I hear her asked to sing again.
Her voice, however, introduces her to very pleasant parties, and she's a girl that's very much taken notice of, and I don't doubt will go off vastly well.
Now, brother, read the newspaper like Counsellor Puff.
You are quite yourself to-night.
Here's a newspaper, sir, pray let us have Counsellor Puff.
To prevent impositions and counterfeits, the public are requested to take notice, that the only genuine primrose soap is stamped on the outside,'Valiant and Wise.'
I absolutely must show you, some day, to my friend Lady Battersby; you'd absolutely make her die with laughing; and she'd quite adore you," said Mrs. Theresa, who was well aware that every pause must be filled with flattery.
I shall never be tired, if I sit looking at you these hundred years.
Stimulated by these plaudits, Frederick proceeded to show how Colonel Epaulette blew his nose, flourished his cambric handkerchief, bowed to Lady Diana Periwinkle, and admired her work, saying, " Done by no hands, as you may guess, but those of Fairly Fair.
Whilst Lady Diana, he observed, simpered so prettily, and took herself so quietly for Fairly Fair, not perceiving that the colonel was admiring his own nails all the while.
Next to Colonel Epaulette, Frederick, at Marianne's particular desire, came into the room like Sir Charles Slang.
There now, Mrs. Tattle, are not those good eyes?
They stare so like his, without seeming to see anything all the while.
I must say that you are the best mimic of your age I ever saw, and I'm sure Lady Battersby will think so too.
That is Sir Charles to the very life.
But with all that, you must know he's a mighty pleasant, fashionable young man when you come to know him, and has a great deal of sense under all that, and is of a very good family-the Slangs, you know.
Sir Charles will come into a fine fortune himself next year, if he can keep clear of gambling, which I hear is his foible, poor young man!
I'm quite tired, and I will do no more," said Frederick, stretching himself at full length upon a sofa.
Even in the midst of laughter, and whilst the voice of flattery yet sounded in his ear, Frederick felt sad, displeased with himself, and disgusted with Mrs. Theresa.
said Mrs. Theresa; " what can make you sigh so bitterly?
You, who make everybody else laugh.
Oh, such another sigh again!
bless me," said Mrs. Theresa, " mighty odd!
but one can't be surprised at meeting with extraordinary characters amongst that race of people, actors by profession, you know; for they are brought up from the egg to make their fortune, or at least their bread by their oddities.
But, my dear Mr. Frederick, you are quite pale, quite exhausted; no wonder-what will you have?
I insist upon it," said Mrs. Theresa, ringing the bell.
and papa and mamma, you know, will come home presently," said Marianne.
Miss Sophy has her books and drawings.
You know she's never afraid of being alone.
Besides, to-night it was her own choice.
The door opened just as Mrs. Tattle was going to ring the bell again for candles and the cowslip-wine.
said Mrs. Theresa, who was standing at the fire, with her back to the door, when it opened, " Christopher!
but no Christopher answered; and, upon turning round, Mrs. Tattle, instead of Christopher, beheld two little black figures, which stood perfectly still and silent.
It was so dark, that their forms could scarcely be discerned.
repeated Frederick and Marianne, bursting out a-laughing.
repeated Mrs. Theresa, provoked at the recollection of her late solemn address to them.
and could not you say so a little sooner?
Pray, what brings you here, gentlemen, at this time of night?
I have no brother, dunce," said Mrs. Theresa.
The chimney-sweeper with the squeaking voice bowed, thanked her ladyship for this information, said, " Good night to ye, quality "; and they both moved towards the door.
Christopher, did you hear anything about it?
said the lady to her footman, who was now lighting the candles.
But, if you please, I'll step down now, ma'am, and see about the chimney-sweepers.
Marianne withdrew rather coldly from a kiss which Mrs. Tattle was going to give her; for she was somewhat surprised at the familiarity with which this lady talked to her footman.
She had not been accustomed to these familiarities in her father and mother, and she did not like them.
The other morning, ma'am, early, he and the other were down the hill sweeping in Paradise Row.
Those chimneys, they say, are difficult; and the square fellow, ma'am, the biggest of the two boys, got wedged in the chimney.
So he screeched, and screeched, all he could; and by the greatest chance in life, ma'am, old Mr. Eden was just going down the hill to fetch his morning walk.
So the sweep did make him hear.
exclaimed Mrs. Theresa; " but did old Eden go up the chimney himself after the boy, wig and all?
but he's alive now; go on with your story, Christopher," said Mrs. T. " Chimney-sweepers get wedged in chimneys every day; it's part of their trade, and it's a happy thing when they come off with a few bruises.
yes, indeed," said Marianne; " and I'm sure I think Mr. Eden was very good.
where the Eagles or the Miss Ropers lodge?
cried Mrs. Theresa, " I thought we should get to the bottom of the affair at last.
This will make an admirable story for my Lady Battersby the next time I see her.
These Quakers are so sly!
Old Eden, I know, has long wanted to obtain an introduction into that house; and a charming charitable expedient hit upon!
My Lady Battersby will enjoy this, of all things.
She will do me the honour to be here to spend an evening to-morrow.
I'm convinced Mr. and Mrs. Montague will find themselves obliged to stay out another day, and I so long to show you off to her ladyship; and your Doctor Carbuncle, and your Counsellor Puff, and your Miss Croker, and all your charming characters.
You must let me introduce you to her ladyship to-morrow evening.
I am much obliged to you; but indeed I cannot come.
You don't think I mean you should promise, if you are certain your papa and mamma will be home.
no, ma'am," said Frederick; " but I said I would.
I know I need not, because my father and mother always let me judge for myself almost about everything.
Mr. Frederick Montague, I'm sure, is too wellbred a young gentleman to do so unpolite, so ungallant a thing!
The jargon of politeness and gallantry is frequently brought by the silly acquaintance of young people to confuse their simple morality and clear good sense.
A new and unintelligible system is presented to them, in a language foreign to their understanding, and contradictory to their feelings.
They hesitate between new motives and old principles.
From the fear of being thought ignorant, they become affected; and from the dread of being thought to be children act like fools.
But all this they feel only when they are in the company of such people as Mrs. Theresa Tattle.
You had very nearly made a most shocking blunder in putting it all upon poor Lady Battersby.
Besides, as to yourself, there's nothing her ladyship delights in so much as in a good mimic; and she'll quite adore you!
Between friends, can there be any harm in showing one's talents?
You that have such talents to show.
She'll keep your secret, I'll answer for her; and," added she, " you needn't be afraid of her criticism; for, between you and me, she's no great critic; so you'll come.
Well, thank you, that's settled.
How you have made me beg and pray!
but you know your own value, I see; as you entertaining people always do.
One must ask a wit, like a fine singer, so often.
Well, but now for the favour I was going to ask you.
Frederick looked surprised; for he thought that the favour of his company was what she meant: but she explained herself farther.
He is the best character, the oddest creature!
If you were but to see him come into the rooms with those stiff skirts, or walking with his eternal sister Bertha, and his everlasting broad-brimmed hat!
One knows him a mile off!
Now you, who have so much invention and cleverness-I have no invention myself; but could you not hit upon some way of seeing him, so that you might get him by heart?
I'm sure you, who are so quick, would only want to see him, and hear him, for half a minute, to be able to take him off, so as to kill one with laughing.
But I know a way of getting up into his room, and seeing him, without his knowing me to be there.
exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, " do my ears deceive me?
I declare I looked round, and thought I heard the squeaking chimney-sweeper was in the room!
Frederick imitated the squeaking voice of this chimney-sweeper to great perfection.
The old Quaker, if my face were blackened, and if I were to change clothes with the chimney-sweeper, I'll answer for it, would never know me.
I give you infinite credit for it!
I'll ring, and have the fellow up this minute.
You know you promised that I should do as I pleased.
I only told you my invention.
You shall do as you please afterwards.
Christopher," said she to the servant who came up when she rang, " pray are the sweeps gone yet?
He came down hisself to the kitchen to the sweeps, though; but wouldn't have, as I heard him say, his sister waked for no account.
But Miss Bertha's bell will ring when she wakens for the sweeps, ma'am.
Quick, but don't let the other bear come up with him.
Christopher, who had curiosity, as well as his mistress, when he returned with the chimney-sweeper, prolonged his own stay in the room by sweeping the hearth, throwing down the tongs and shovel, and picking them up again.
Christopher, that will do, I say," Mrs. Theresa repeated in vain.
She was obliged to say, " Christopher, you may go," before he would depart.
Only just change clothes with the boy; only just let me see what a charming chimney-sweeper you'd make.
You shall do as you please afterwards.
I don't think that would be quite right.
He would not let her be wakened.
die with that beautiful colour in her cheeks!
How sorry her poor, poor brother will be!
But she will not die, I'm sure, for she walks about and runs upstairs so lightly!
Oh, you must be quite mistaken, I hope.
He says, unless the waters work a miracle, she stands a bad chance; and she won't follow my advice, and consult the doctor for her health.
Young ladies should not be so forward to give opinions and advice to their elder brothers unasked; and I presume that Mr. Frederick and I must know what's right as well as Miss Marianne.
cried she, as Frederick entered in the chimney-sweeper's dress; and as he spoke, saying, " I'm afraid, please your ladyship, to dirt your ladyship's carpet," she broke out into immoderate raptures, calling him " her charming chimney-sweeper!
and repeating that she knew beforehand the character would do for him.
And so he did; and when Frederick spoke, the voice was so very like, that it was scarcely possible that he should have perceived the difference.
Marianne was diverted by this scene; but she started, when in the midst of it they heard a bell ring.
I did not know you were so much bruised when I first saw you.
Go," said she, pushing Frederick towards the door.
Marianne sprang forward to speak to him; but Mrs. Theresa kept her off; and, though Frederick resisted, the lady shut the door upon him by superior force, and, having locked it, there was no retreat.
Mrs. Tattle and Marianne waited impatiently for Frederick's return.
They listened again, and all was silent.
At length they suddenly heard a great noise of many steps in the hall.
exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, " it must be your father and mother come back.
Marianne ran to unlock the room door, and Mrs. Theresa followed her into the hall.
The hall was rather dark, but under the lamp a crowd of people, all the servants in the house having gathered together.
As Mrs. Theresa approached, the crowd opened in silence, and in the midst she beheld Frederick, with blood streaming from his face.
His head was held by Christopher; and the chimney-sweeper was holding a basin for him.
Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute?
A key, a large key down his back-a key-has nobody a key?
Mr. and Mrs. Montague will be here before he has done bleeding.
Can nobody think of anything that will stop blood in a minute?
he'll bleed to death, I believe.
cried Marianne, catching hold of the words; and terrified, she ran upstairs, crying, " Sophy, oh, Sophy!
come down this minute, or he'll be dead!
My brother's bleeding to death!
come down, or he'll be dead!
I'm certain sure he might have known well enough it was Mr. Frederick all the time, and he'd no business to go to fight-such a one as he-with a gentleman.
said the chimney-sweeper, " how could I?
said Frederick; " he shall hold the basin.
I'm glad to hear him speak like himself again, at anyrate," cried Mrs. Theresa.
said Sophy, looking, as she thought, at the two chimney-sweepers.
At this instant a female figure in white appeared upon the stairs; she passed swiftly on, whilst everyone gave way before her.
cried Mrs. Theresa, catching hold of her gown to stop her, as she came near Frederick.
take care of the chimney sweeper, for heaven's sake.
cried Marianne, throwing her arms round her, and looking up as if to a being of a superior order.
answered a sweet voice: " do not frighten thyself.
You see Mr. Frederick Montague only in a masquerade dress.
Nothing in the world but a frolic, ma'am.
You see he's stopped bleeding.
I was frightened out of my wits at first.
I thought it was his eye, but I see it's only his nose.
All's well that ends well.
Mr. Frederick, we'll keep your counsel.
Pray, ma'am, let us ask no questions; it's only a boyish frolic.
Come, Mr. Frederick, this way, into my room, and I'll give you a towel and some clean water, and you can get rid of this masquerade dress.
Make haste, for fear your father and mother should drop in upon us.
They are surely thy best friends," said a voice.
It was the voice of an elderly gentleman, who now stood behind Frederick.
whispered Mrs. Tattle, " say nothing about me.
Let me speak," cried he, pushing away her hand, which stopped his mouth.
is not that Mrs. Montague's carriage?
Let him speak; he was going to speak the truth.
I only wanted, ma'am, to hinder your brother from exposing himself.
A hall, I apprehend, is not a proper place for explanation.
This way, pray," said she, pulling his arm.
But Frederick broke from her, and followed Mr. Eden.
cried Frederick; " all that concerns myself, I mean.
Sir, I disguised myself in this dress; I came up to your room to-night on purpose to see you, without your knowing it, that I might mimic you.
The chimney-sweeper, where is he?
said Frederick, looking round; and he ran into the hall to see for him.
he may-he is a brave, an honest, good, grateful boy.
He never guessed who I was.
After we left you we went down to the kitchen together, and there, fool as I was, for the pleasure of making Mr. Christopher and the servants laugh, began to mimic you.
This boy said he would not stand by and hear you laughed at; that you had saved his life; that I ought to be ashamed of myself; that you had just given me half a crown; and so you had; but I went on, and told him I'd knock him down if he said another word.
He did; I gave the first blow; we fought; I came to the ground; the servants pulled me up again.
They found out, I don't know how, that I was not a chimney-sweeper.
And now can you forgive me, sir?
said Frederick to Mr. Eden, seizing hold of his hand.
said Frederick, " that was hurt, I remember.
How ill I have behaved-extremely ill!
But this is a lesson that I shall never forget as long as I live.
I hope for the future I shall behave like a gentleman.
Just when Frederick had got rid of half his black countenance, a double knock was heard at the door.
It was Mr. and Mrs. Montague.
whispered Mrs. Theresa to Frederick, as his father and mother came into the room.
exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Montague.
Thou hast told it once, and told it well; no one but my brother could tell it better.
Without taking any notice of Mrs. Tattle, or her apprehensive looks, Mr. Eden explained all he knew of the affair in a few words.
The dress hath not stained the mind; that is fair and honourable.
When he found himself in the wrong, he said so; nor was he in haste to conceal his adventure from his father; this made me think well of both father and son.
I speak plainly, friend, for that is best.
But what is become of the other chimney-sweeper?
He will want to go home," said Mr. Eden, turning to Mrs. Theresa.
Without making any reply, she hurried out of the room as fast as possible, and returned in a few moments, with a look of extreme consternation.
Now, indeed, Mr. Frederick, your papa and mamma have reason to be angry.
A new suit of clothes- the bare faced villain!
no sign of them in my closet, or anywhere.
The door was locked; he must have gone up the chimney, out upon the leads, and so escaped; but Christopher is after him.
I protest, Mrs. Montague, you take it too quietly.
The wretch- a new suit of clothes, blue coat and buff waistcoat.
I never heard of such a thing!
I declare, Mr. Montague, you are vastly good, not to be in a passion," added Mrs. Theresa.
He will, I am persuaded, judge and act for himself more wisely in future.
Nor will he be tempted to offend against humanity, for the sake of being called'The best mimic in the world.'
THE BARRING OUT; OR, PARTY SPIRIT.
At Doctor Middleton's school, there was a great tall dunce of the name of Fisher, who never could be taught how to look out a word in the dictionary.
He used to torment everybody with --" Do pray help me!
I can't make out this one word.
The person who usually helped him in his distress was a very clever, good natured boy, of the name of De Grey, who had been many years under Dr. Middleton's care, and who, by his abilities and good conduct, did him great credit.
The doctor certainly was both proud and fond of him; but he was so well beloved, or so much esteemed by his companions, that nobody had ever called him by the odious name of favourite, until the arrival of a new scholar of the name of Archer.
His aim, the moment he came to a new school, was to get to the head of it, or at least to form the strongest party.
His influence, for he was a boy of considerable abilities, was quickly felt, though he had a powerful rival, as he thought proper to call him, in De Grey; and, with HIM, a rival was always an enemy.
De Grey, so far from giving him any cause of hatred, treated him with a degree of cordiality, which would probably have had an effect upon Archer's mind, if it had not been for the artifices of Fisher.
It may seem surprising, that a GREAT DUNCE should be able to work upon a boy like an Archer, who was called a great genius; but when genius is joined to a violent temper, instead of being united to good sense, it is at the mercy even of dunces.
Fisher was mortally offended one morning by De Grey's refusing to translate his whole lesson for him.
He went over to Archer, who, considering him as a partisan deserting from the enemy, received him with open arms, and translated his whole lesson without expressing MUCH contempt for his stupidity.
From this moment Fisher forgot all De Grey's former kindness, and considered only how he could in his turn mortify the person whom he felt to be so much his superior.
De Grey and Archer were now reading for a premium, which was to be given in their class.
Fisher betted on Archer's head, who had not sense enough to despise the bet of a blockhead.
On the contrary he suffered him to excite the spirit of rivalship in its utmost fury by collecting the bets of all the school.
So that this premium now became a matter of the greatest consequence, and Archer, instead of taking the means to secure a judgment in his favour, was listening to the opinions of all his companions.
It was a prize which was to be won by his own exertions; but he suffered himself to consider it as an affair of chance.
The consequence was, that he trusted to chance-his partisans lost their wagers, and he the premium-and his temper.
cried Archer, with affected gaiety, as soon as the doctor had left the room --" Well, I'm content with MY sentence.
for me-industry for those who WANT it," added he, with a significant look at De Grey.
These warmly congratulated De Grey.
At this Archer grew more and more angry, and when Fisher was proceeding to speak nonsense FOR him, pushed forward into the circle to De Grey, crying, " I wish, Mr. Fisher, you would let me fight my own battles!
Come," said he, tapping De Grey's shoulder, " let us see your new playhouse, do-it's a holiday, and let us make the most of it.
Let us have the'School for Scandal,' do; and I'll play Charles for you, and you, De Grey, shall be MY LITTLE PREMIUM.
Come, do open this new playhouse of yours to-night.
said De Grey, and he ran across the playground to a waste building at the farthest end of it, in which, at the earnest request of the whole community, and with the permission of Dr. Middleton, he had with much pain and ingenuity erected a theatre.
echoed a multitude of voices.
echoed very disagreeably in Archer's ear; but as he could not be LEFT ALONE, he was also obliged to follow the manager.
The moment that the door was unlocked, the crowd rushed in: the delight and wonder expressed at the sight was great, and the applause and thanks which were bestowed upon the manager were long and loud.
Archer at least thought them long, for he was impatient till his voice could be heard.
When at length the acclamations had spent themselves, he walked across the stage with a knowing air, and looking round contemptuously.
These words made a great and visible change in the feelings and opinions of the public.
or who would toil for popular applause?
A few words spoken in a decisive tone by a new voice operated as a charm, and the playhouse was in an instant metamorphosed in the eyes of the spectators.
All gratitude for the past was forgotten, and the expectation of something better justified to the capricious multitude their disdain of what they had so lately pronounced to be excellent.
Everyone now began to criticise.
One observed, " that the green curtain was full of holes, and would not draw up.
Another attacked the scenes; " Scenes!
they were not like real scenes-Archer must know best, because he was used to these things.
So everybody crowded to hear something of the OTHER playhouse.
They gathered round Archer to hear the description of his playhouse, and at every sentence insulting comparisons were made.
When he had done, his auditors looked round, sighed and wished that Archer had been their manager.
They turned from De Grey as from a person who had done them an injury.
Some of his friends-for he had friends who were not swayed by the popular opinion-felt indignation at this ingratitude, and were going to express their feelings; but De Grey stopped them, and begged that he might speak for himself.
I have done my best to please you; but if anybody else can please you better, I shall be glad of it.
I did not work so hard for the glory of being your manager.
You have my free leave to tear down --" Here his voice faltered, but he hurried on --" You have my free leave to tear down all my work as fast as you please.
Archer, shake hands first, however, to show that there's no malice in the case.
Archer, who was touched by what his rival said, and, stopping the hand of his new partisan, Fisher, cried, " No, Fisher!
There is a great deal of ingenuity in it, considering.
In vain Archer would now have recalled the public to reason- the time for reason was passed: enthusiasm had taken hold of their minds.
cried Fisher, and tore down the curtain.
The riot once begun, nothing could stop the little mob, till the whole theatre was demolished.
The love of power prevailed in the mind of Archer; he was secretly flattered by the zeal of his PARTY, and he mistook their love of mischief for attachment to himself.
De Grey looked on superior.
And now it was all over, there was silence.
The rioters stood still to take breath, and to look at what they had done.
There was a blank space before them.
In this moment of silence there was heard something like a voice.
What strange voice is that?
Fisher caught fast hold of his arm.
Everybody looked round to see where the voice came from.
Two window-shutters at the farthest end of the building were seen to move slowly inwards.
De Grey, and in the same instant Archer, went forward; and, as the shutters opened, there appeared through the hole the dark face and shrivelled hands of a very old gipsy.
She did not speak; but she looked first at one and then at another.
At length she fixed her eyes on De Grey.
Her eye immediately turned upon Archer-" YOU want something with me," said she, with emphasis.
In that WATCH-CHAIN, she should have said, for her quick eye had espied Archer's watch-chain.
He was the only person in the company who had a watch, and she therefore judged him to be the richest.
said he, looking at De Grey, as if he was afraid of his ridicule, if he listened to the gipsy.
for you will make your own fortune, and the fortune of all that belong to you!
cried the gipsy, " good luck to them all!
Then, as soon as they had acquired sufficient confidence in her good will, they pressed up to the window.
I've stumbled on the mitre box; I shall certainly be a bishop.
Happy he who had sixpence, for he bid fair to be a judge upon the bench.
And happier he who had a shilling, for he was in the high road to be one day upon the woolsack, Lord High Chancellor of England.
No one had half a crown, or no one would surely have kept it in his pocket upon such an occasion, for he might have been an archbishop, a king, or what he pleased.
Fisher, who like all weak people was extremely credulous, kept his post immovable in the front row all the time, his mouth open, and his stupid eyes fixed upon the gipsy, in whom he felt implicit faith.
Those who have least confidence in their own powers, and who have least expectation from the success of their own exertions, are always most disposed to trust in fortune-tellers and fortune.
They hope to WIN, when they cannot EARN; and as they can never be convinced by those who speak sense, it is no wonder they are always persuaded by those who talk nonsense.
Everybody else drew back, and left him to whisper his question in the gipsy's ear.
The gipsy paused for information.
I thought I had scratched it, so that nobody could make it out.
Not a word more to-night.
She pulled the shutters towards her, and left the youth in darkness.
All his companions were gone.
He had been so deeply engaged in this conference, that he had not perceived their departure.
He found all the world at supper, but no entreaties could prevail upon him to disclose his secret.
Townsend rallied in vain.
As for Archer, he was not disposed to destroy by ridicule the effect which he saw that the old woman's predictions in his favour had had upon the imagination of many of his little partisans.
He had privately slipped two good shillings into the gipsy's hand to secure her; for he was willing to pay any price for ANY means of acquiring power.
The watch-chain had not deceived the gipsy, for Archer was the richest person in the community.
His friends had imprudently supplied him with more money than is usually trusted to boys of his age.
Dr. Middleton had refused to give him a larger monthly allowance than the rest of his companions; but he brought to school with him secretly the sum of five guineas.
This appeared to his friends and to himself an inexhaustible treasure.
Riches and talents would, he flattered himself, secure to him that ascendancy of which he was so ambitious.
If you desire me to be your manager, you shall see what a theatre I will make for you.
In this purse," said he, showing through the network a glimpse of the shining treasure --" in this purse is Aladdin's wonderful lamp.
About ten of the most reasonable of the assembly declared their gratitude and high approbation of their old friend, De Grey; but the numbers were in favour of the new friend.
And as no metaphysical distinctions relative to the idea of a majority had ever entered their thoughts, the most numerous party considered themselves as now beyond dispute in the right.
They drew off on one side in triumph, and their leader, who knew the consequence of a name in party matters, immediately distinguished his partisans by the gallant name of ARCHERS, stigmatizing the friends of De Grey by the odious epithet of Greybeards.
Amongst the Archers was a class not very remarkable for their mental qualifications; but who, by their bodily activity, and by the peculiar advantages annexed to their way of life, rendered themselves of the highest consequence, especially to the rich and enterprising.
The judicious reader will apprehend that I allude to the persons called day scholars.
Amongst these, Fisher was distinguished by his knowledge of all the streets and shops in the adjacent town; and, though a dull scholar, he had such reputation as a man of business, that whoever had commissions to execute at the confectioner's, was sure to apply to him.
Though his visits to the confectioner's were thus at an end, there were many other shops open to him; and with officious zeal he offered his services to the new manager, to purchase whatever might be wanting for the theatre.
Since his father's death Fisher had become a boarder at Dr. Middleton's, but his frequent visits to his Aunt Barbara afforded him opportunities of going into the town.
The carpenter, De Grey's friend, was discarded by Archer, for having said " LACK-A-DAISY!
when he saw that the old theatre was pulled down.
A new carpenter and paper hanger, recommended by Fisher, were appointed to attend, with their tools, for orders, at two o'clock.
Archer, impatient to show his ingenuity and his generosity, gave his plan and his orders in a few minutes, in a most decided manner; " These things," he observed, " should be done with some spirit.
To which the carpenter readily assented, and added, that " gentlemen of spirit never looked to the EXPENSE, but always to the EFFECT.
Upon this principle Mr. Chip set to work with all possible alacrity.
In a few hours'time he promised to produce a grand effect.
High expectations were formed.
Nothing was talked of but the new playhouse; and so intent upon it was every head, that no lessons could be got.
Archer was obliged, in the midst of his various occupations, to perform the part of grammar and dictionary for twenty different people.
he exclaimed, " how hard do I work to obtain your praise!
Impatient to return to the theatre, the moment the hours destined for instruction, or, as they are termed by schoolboys, school-hours, were over, each prisoner started up with a shout of joy.
The names of all the boys were called over, and when each had answered to his name, Dr. Middleton said --
You will be so good as to dismiss him.
I do not think proper to give my reasons for these orders; but you who KNOW me," said the doctor, and his eye turned towards De Grey, " will not suspect me of caprice.
I depend, gentlemen, upon your obedience.
To the dead silence with which these orders were received, succeeded in a few minutes a universal groan.
said Townsend, " all our diversion is over.
Did you not observe how he looked at De Grey?
Fired by this thought, which had never entered his mind before, Archer started from his reverie, and striking his hand upon the table, swore that he " would not be outwitted by any Greybeard in Europe-no, nor by all of them put together.
The Archers were surely a match for them.
He would stand by them, if they would stand by him," he declared, with a loud voice, " against the whole world, and Dr. Middleton himself, with'LITTLE PREMIUMS'at his right hand.
Everybody admired Archer's spirit, but were a little appalled at the sound of standing against Dr. Middleton.
resumed the indignant manager.
This, you see, is a stroke at me and my party, and I won't bear it.
said De Grey, who was the only one who dared to oppose reason to the angry orator.
Remember my majority this morning, and your theatre last night.
We must all sit down with our hands before us-all for'GOOD REASONS'of Dr. Middleton's, which he does not vouchsafe to tell us.
Don't be in a passion, Archer.
I won't submit to tyranny.
I won't be made a fool of by a few soft words.
You don't know me, De Grey.
I'll go through with what I've begun.
I am manager, and I will be manager; and you shall see my theatre finished in spite of you, and MY party triumphant.
We never heard of parties till you came amongst us.
I believe you are out of your senses, Archer!
Did not you win the premium?
Did not you want to be manager?
Answer me, are not you, in one word, a Greybeard?
cried the other, furiously.
WE shall laugh by-and-by, I promise you.
At the door Archer was stopped by Mr. Chip.
why, you have not been at work for two hours!
The stuff is all laid out and delivered.
The paper and the festoon-bordering for the drawing room scene is cut out, and left yAnder within.
I wish you had not been in such a confounded hurry-six-and-twenty shillings!
cried he; " but I can't stay to talk about it now.
I'll tell you, Mr. Chip," said Archer, lowering his voice, " what you must do for me, my good fellow.
Then, drawing Mr. Chip aside, he begged him to pull down some of the wood work which had been put up, and to cut it into a certain number of wooden bars, of which he gave him the dimensions, with orders to place them all, when ready, under a haystack, which he pointed out.
Mr. Chip scrupled and hesitated, and began to talk of " THE DOCTOR.
Archer immediately began to talk of the bill, and throwing down a guinea and a half, the conscientious carpenter pocketed the money directly, and made his bow.
You have such a way of talking one out of it.
You manage me just like a child.
said Archer, knowing that he had been cheated, and yet proud of managing a carpenter, " ay, ay!
I know the way to manage everybody.
Let the things be ready in an hour's time, and hark'e!
leave your tools by mistake behind you, and a thousand of twenty-penny nails.
Ask no questions, and keep your own counsel like a wise man.
Off with you, and take care of'THE DOCTOR.'
Follow your leader," cried he, sounding his well known whistle as a signal.
His followers gathered round him, and he, raising himself upon the mount at the foot of the tree, counted his numbers, and then, in a voice lower than usual, addressed them thus:--" My friends, is there a Greybeard amongst us?
If there is, let him walk off at once, he has my free leave.
I ask no security but your honour.
They all gave their honour to be secret and FAITHFUL, as he called it, and he went on.
They had heard of such a thing, but they had only heard of it.
Archer gave the history of a " Barring Out," in which he had been concerned at his school, in which the boys stood out against the master, and gained their point at last, which was a week's more holidays at Easter.
Let us be steady and he'll tremble.
Tyrants always tremble when --
replied Archer; " and is not he a schoolmaster?
To this logic there was no answer; but, still reluctant, they asked, " What they should GET by a Barring Out?
Bar him out till he repeals his tyrannical law; till he lets us into our own theatre again, or till he tells us his'GOOD REASONS'against it.
cried Archer, " that's the way we are always to be governed by a man in a wig, who says he has good reasons, and can't tell them.
I see you are all Greybeards.
they all exclaimed at once.
Dr. Johnson mentions that Addison, while under the tuition of Mr. Shaw, master of the Lichfield Grammar School, led, and successfully conducted, " a plan for BARRING OUT his master.
A disorderly privilege," says the doctor, " which, in his time, prevailed in the principal seminaries of education.
In the Gentleman's Magazine of 1828, Dr. P. A. Nuttall, under the signature of II.
A. N., has given a spirited sketch of a " BARRING OUT " at the Ormskirk Grammar School, which has since been republished at length (though without acknowledgment), by Sir Henry Ellis, in Bohn's recent edition of Brand's " Popular Antiquities.
It would have taken up too much time to examine what " THE RIGHT " was.
Everybody thinks it is right, and everybody can't be wrong.
By some of these arguments, which passed rapidly through the mind without his being conscious of them, each boy decided, and deceived himself-what none would have done alone, none scrupled to do as a party.
It was determined, then, that there should be a Barring Out.
The arrangement of the affair was left to their new manager, to whom they all pledged implicit obedience.
Obedience, it seems, is necessary, even from rebels to their ringleaders; not reasonable, but implicit obedience.
Scarcely had the assembly adjourned to the Ball-alley, when Fisher, with an important length of face, came up to the manager, and desired to speak one word to him.
Make haste, and don't make so many faces, for I'm in a hurry.
By right and wrong, I mean lucky and unlucky.
Do you know," said he, laying hold of Archer's button, " I'm in the secret.
There are nine of us have crooked our little fingers upon it, not to stir a step till we get her advice; and she has appointed me to meet her about particular business of my own at eight.
So I'm to consult her and to bring her answer.
Archer knew too well how to govern fools, to attempt to reason with them; and, instead of laughing any longer at Fisher's ridiculous superstition, he was determined to take advantage of it.
He affected to be persuaded of the wisdom of the measure; looked at his watch; urged him to be exact to a moment; conjured him to remember exactly the words of the oracle; and, above all things, to demand the lucky hour and minute when the Barring Out should begin.
With these instructions Archer put his watch into the solemn dupe's hand, and left him to count the seconds, till the moment of his appointment, whilst he ran off himself to prepare the oracle.
Proud of his secret commission, Fisher slouched his hat, he knew not why, over his face, and proceeded towards the appointed spot.
To keep, as he had been charged by Archer, within the letter of the law, he stood BEHIND the forbidden building, and waited some minutes.
Through a gap in the hedge the old woman at length made her appearance, muffled up, and looking cautiously about her.
said Fisher, and he began to be a little afraid.
said the gipsy, lifting up her hands; " never, never, never to be found!
But no matter for that now; that is not your errand to-night; no tricks with me; speak to me of what is next your heart.
A thought, a provident thought, now struck Fisher; for even he had some foresight where his favourite passion was concerned.
Silver won't do for so many; gold is what must cross my hand.
I'm only talking of number one, you know.
I must take care of that first.
So, as Fisher thought it was possible that Archer, clever as he was, might be disappointed in his supplies, he determined to take secret measures for himself.
My mouth waters for the buns, and have'em I must now.
So, for the hope of twelve buns, he sacrificed the money which had been intrusted to him.
Thus the meanest motives, in mean minds often prompt to the commission of those great faults, to which one should think nothing but some violent passion could have tempted.
The ambassador having thus, in his opinion, concluded his own and the public business, returned well satisfied with the result, after receiving the gipsy's reiterated promise to tap THREE TIMES at the window on Thursday morning.
The day appointed for the Barring Out at length arrived; and Archer, assembling the confederates, informed them, that all was prepared for carrying their design into execution; that he now depended for success upon their punctuality and courage.
Fisher, pray did you ever buy the candles for the playhouse?
We shall be in the dark, man.
You must run this minute, run.
said Fisher, confused; " how many?what sort?
exclaimed Archer, " you are a pretty fellow at a dead lift!
Lend me a pencil and a bit of paper, do; I'll write down what I want myself!
Well, what are you fumbling for?
Didn't I give you half a crown the other day?
I don't know what you are AT.
He returned; but not until a considerable time afterwards.
They were at supper when he returned.
said Townsend, who always supplied his party with ready wit.
A dunce always thinks it clever to cheat even by SOBER LIES.
How Mr. Fisher procured the candles and the tinder box without money, and without credit, we shall discover further on.
Archer and his associates had agreed to stay the last in the schoolroom; and as soon as the Greybeards were gone out to bed, he, as the signal, was to shut and lock one door, Townsend the other.
A third conspirator was to strike a light, in case they should not be able to secure a candle.
A fourth was to take charge of the candle as soon as lighted; and all the rest were to run to their bars, which were secreted in a room; then to fix them to the common fastening bars of the window, in the manner in which they had been previously instructed by the manager.
Thus each had his part assigned, and each was warned that the success of the whole depended upon their order and punctuality.
Order and punctuality, it appears, are necessary even in a Barring Out; and even rebellion must have its laws.
The long expected moment at length arrived.
De Grey and his friends, unconscious of what was going forward, walked out of the schoolroom as usual at bedtime.
The clock began to strike nine.
There was one Greybeard left in the room, who was packing up some of his books, which had been left about by accident.
It is impossible to describe the impatience with which he was watched, especially by Fisher, and the nine who depended upon the gipsy oracle.
When he had got all his books together under his arm, he let one of them fall; and whilst he stooped to pick it up, Archer gave the signal.
The doors were shut, locked, and double-locked in an instant.
A light was struck and each ran to his post.
The bars were all in the same moment put up to the windows, and Archer, when he had tried them all, and seen that they were secure, gave a loud " Huzza!
No, no, my little Greybeard," said Archer, catching hold of him, and dragging him to the window bars.
It's a pity that the king of the Greybeards is not here to admire me.
I should like to show him our fortifications.
But come, my merry men all, now to the feast.
Out with the table into the middle of the room.
Good cheer, my jolly Archers!
Townsend, delighted with the bustle, rubbed his hands, and capered about the room, whilst the preparations for the feast were hurried forward.
Let's have things in style when we are about it, Mr.
Manager," cried Townsend.
There's nothing like a fair scramble, my boys.
Let everyone take care of himself.
Greybeard, I've knocked Greybeard down here in the scuffle.
Get up again, my lad, and see a little life.
said Fisher, exultingly, and they returned to their feast.
Long and loud they revelled.
They had a few bottles of cider.
cried Townsend, " let Greybeards think of to-morrow; Mr.
Manager, here's your good health.
The Archers all stood up as their cups were filled to drink the health of their chief with a universal cheer.
But at the moment that the cups were at their lips, and as Archer bowed to thank the company, a sudden shower from above astonished the whole assembly.
They looked up, and beheld the rose of a watering-engine, whose long neck appeared through a trap door in the ceiling.
said a voice, which was known to be the gardener's; and in the midst of their surprise and dismay the candles were suddenly extinguished; the trap-door shut down; and they were left in utter darkness.
Manager," said the same voice from the ceiling, " I hear every word you say.
Only, you remember, Archer, it had just done before you had done locking your door.
were ye never in the dark before?
You are not afraid of a shower of rain, I hope.
We can't unbar the shutters.
The trap-door had indeed escaped the manager's observation.
As the house was new to him, and the ceiling being newly white-washed, the opening was scarcely perceptible.
But at the moment that it made the tinder-box visible, another shower from above, aimed, and aimed exactly, at the tinder-box, drenched it with water, and rendered it totally unfit for further service.
Archer in a fury dashed it to the ground.
And now for the first time he felt what it was to be the unsuccessful head of a party.
He heard in his turn the murmurs of a discontented, changeable populace; and recollecting all his bars and bolts, and ingenious contrivances, he was more provoked at their blaming him for this one only oversight than he was grieved at the disaster itself.
and it's all about, I suppose, amongst the supper; and I had but one bit of bread all the time.
cried Archer; " eat if you want it.
Here's a piece here, and no glass near it.
What, nothing but moaning and grumbling!
If these are the joys of a Barring Out," cried Townsend, " I'd rather be snug in my bed.
I expected that we should have sat up till twelve o'clock, talking, and laughing, and singing.
Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never will be slaves.'
Nothing can be more melancholy than forced merriment.
In vain they roared in chorus.
In vain they tried to appear gay.
The voices died away, and dropped off one by one.
They had each provided himself with a great-coat to sleep upon; but now, in the dark, there was a peevish scrambling contest for the coats, and half the company, in very bad humour, stretched themselves upon the benches for the night.
Dr. Middleton had probably considered this in the choice he made of his first attack.
Archer, who had spent the night as a man who had the cares of government upon his shoulders, rose early in the morning, whilst everybody else was fast asleep.
In the night he had resolved the affair of the trap-door, and a new danger had alarmed him.
It was possible that the enemy might descend upon them through the trap-door.
The room had been built high to admit a free circulation of air.
It was twenty feet, so that it was in vain to think of reaching to the trap-door.
As soon as the daylight appeared, Archer rose softly, that he might RECONNOITRE, and devise some method of guarding against this new danger.
Luckily there were round holes in the top of the window-shutters, which admitted sufficient light for him to work by.
The remains of the soaked feast, wet candles, and broken glass spread over the table in the middle of the room, looked rather dismal this morning.
said Archer, contemplating the group of sleepers before him.
Now if I wanted-which, thank goodness, I don't-but if I did want to call a cabinet council to my assistance, whom could I pitch upon?
not this stupid snorer, who is dreaming of gipsies, if he is dreaming of anything," continued Archer, as he looked into Fisher's open mouth.
And this curl pated monkey, who is grinning in his sleep, is all tongue and no brains.
Here are brains, though nobody would think it, in this lump," said he, looking at a fat, rolled up, heavy breathing sleeper; " but what signify brains to such a lazy dog?
I might kick him for my football this half hour before I should get him awake.
This lank jawed harlequin beside him is a handy fellow, to be sure; but, then, if he has hands, he has no head-and he'd be afraid of his own shadow too, by this light, he is such a coward!
And Townsend, why, he has puns in plenty; but, when there's any work to be done, he's the worst fellow to be near one in the world-he can do nothing but laugh at his own puns.
This poor little fellow that we hunted into the corner has more sense than all of them put together; but then he is a Greybeard.
Thus speculated the chief of a party upon his sleeping friends.
And how did it happen that he should be so ambitious to please and govern this set, when, for each individual of which it was composed, he felt such supreme contempt?
He had formed them into a PARTY, had given them a name, and he was at their head.
If these be not good reasons, none better can be assigned for Archer's conduct.
The sound of my hammering must waken them; so I may as well do the thing handsomely, and flatter some of them by pretending to ask their advice.
Accordingly, he pulled two or three to waken them.
Here's some diversion for you-up!
cried Townsend; " I'm your man!
So, under the name of DIVERSION, Archer set Townsend to work at four o'clock in the morning.
They had nails, a few tools, and several spars, still left from the wreck of the playhouse.
These, by Archer's directions, they sharpened at one end, and nailed them to the ends of several forms.
All hands were now called to clear away the supper things, to erect these forms perpendicularly under the trap-door; and with the assistance of a few braces, a chevaux-de-frise was formed, upon which nobody could venture to descend.
At the farthest end of the room they likewise formed a penthouse of the tables, under which they proposed to breakfast, secure from the pelting storm, if it should again assail them through the trap-door.
They crowded under the penthouse as soon as it was ready, and their admiration of its ingenuity paid the workmen for the job.
I shall like to see the gardener's phiz through the trap-door, when he beholds the spikes under him!
Archer had expected a constant supply of provisions from two boys who lived in the town, who were cousins of his, and who had promised to come every day, and put food in at a certain hole in the wall, in which a ventilator usually turned.
This ventilator Archer had taken down, and had contrived it so that it could be easily removed and replaced at pleasure; but, upon examination, it was now perceived that the hole had been newly stopped up by an iron back, which it was impossible to penetrate or remove.
exclaimed Archer, in great perplexity.
He listened and waited for his cousins; but no cousins came, and at a late hour the company were obliged to breakfast upon the scattered fragments of the last night's feast.
That feast had been spread with such imprudent profusion, that little now remained to satisfy the hungry guests.
The delay, however, was alarming.
Fisher alone heard the manager's calculations and saw the public fears unmoved.
Secretly rejoicing in his own wisdom, he walked from window to window, slily listening for the gipsy's signal.
cried he with more joy sparkling in his eyes than had ever enlightened them before.
do ye hear those three taps at the window?
This is the old woman with twelve buns for me.
I'll give you one whole one for yourself, if you will unbar the window for me.
interrupted Archer; " no, that I won't, for you or the gipsy either; but I have heard enough to get your buns without that.
But stay; there is something of more consequence than your twelve buns.
I must think for ye all, I see, regularly.
So he summoned a council, and proposed that everyone should subscribe, and trust the subscription to the gipsy, to purchase a fresh supply of provisions.
Archer laid down a guinea of his own money for his subscription; at which sight all the company clapped their hands, and his popularity rose to a high pitch with their renewed hopes of plenty.
Now, having made a list of their wants, they folded the money in the paper, put it into a bag, which Archer tied to a long string, and, having broken the pane of glass behind the round hole in the window-shutter, he let down the bag to the gipsy.
She promised to be punctual, and having filled the bag with Fisher's twelve buns, they were drawn up in triumph, and everybody anticipated the pleasure with which they should see the same bag drawn up at dinner-time.
What a pity that so much ingenuity should have been employed to no purpose!
No sooner had she received the money than her end was gained.
Dinner-time came; it struck three, four, five, six.
They listened with hungry ears, but no signal was heard.
The morning had been very long, and Archer had in vain tried to dissuade them from devouring the remainder of the provisions before they were sure of a fresh supply.
And now those who had been the most confident were the most impatient of their disappointment.
Archer, in the division of the food, had attempted, by the most scrupulous exactness, to content the public, and he was both astonished and provoked to perceive that his impartiality was impeached.
So differently do people judge in different situations!
He was the first person to accuse his master of injustice, and the least capable of bearing such an imputation upon himself from others.
He now experienced some of the joys of power, and the delight of managing unreasonable numbers.
Have not I spent my money to buy you food?
Have not I divided the last morsel with you?
I have not tasted one mouthful today!
Did not I set to work for you at sunrise?
Did not I lie awake all night for you?
Have not I had all the labour, and all the anxiety?
Look round and see MY contrivances, MY work, MY generosity!
And, after all, you think me a tyrant, because I want you to have common sense.
Is not this bun which I hold in my hand my own?
Did not I earn it by my own ingenuity from that selfish dunce " (pointing to Fisher), " who could never have gotten one of his twelve buns, if I had not shown him how?
Eleven of them he has eaten since morning for his own share, without offering anyone a morsel; but I scorn to eat even what is justly my own, when I see so many hungry creatures longing for it.
I was not going to touch this last morsel myself.
I only begged you to keep it till supper-time, when perhaps you'll want it more, and Townsend, who can't bear the slightest thing that crosses his own whims, and who thinks there's nothing in this world to be minded but his own diversion, calls me a TYRANT.
You all of you promised to obey me.
The first thing I ask you to do for your own good, and when, if you had common sense, you must know I can want nothing but your good, you rebel against me.
Archer walked up and down, unable to command his emotion, whilst, for the moment, the discontented multitude was silenced.
said he, snatching the bun, which nobody had dared to touch, " take it-it's mine-I give it to you, though you are a Greybeard; you deserve it.
Eat it, and be an Archer.
You shall be my captain; will you?
said he, lifting him up in his arm above the rest.
Though I am shut in here, I have nothing to do with it.
I love Dr. Middleton; he was never unjust to ME, and I daresay that he has very good reasons, as De Grey said, for forbidding us to go into that house.
Instead of admiring the good sense and steadiness of this little lad, Archer suffered Townsend to snatch the untasted bun out of his hands.
He flung it at a hole in the window, but it fell back.
The Archers scrambled for it, and Fisher ate it.
Archer saw this, and was sensible that he had not done handsomely in suffering it.
A few moments ago he had admired his own generosity, and though he had felt the injustice of others, he had not accused himself of any.
He turned away from the little boy, and sitting down at one end of the table, hid his face in his hands.
He continued immovable in this posture for some time.
said Townsend; " it was an excellent joke!
said Fisher; " what a fool, to think so much about a bun!
Archer stooped down, and lifted him up upon the table, at which sight the partisans set up a general hiss.
He wants to be a Greybeard!
After he has got us all into this scrape, he will leave us!
I'll stick by the Archers, right or wrong, I tell you, to the last moment.
But this little fellow-take it as you please, mutiny if you will, and throw me out of the window.
Greybeard- this little fellow is worth you all put together, and I'll stand by him against anyone who dares to lay a finger upon him; and the next morsel of food that I see shall be his.
The commanding air with which Archer spoke and looked, and the belief that the little boy deserved his protection, silenced the crowd.
But the storm was only hushed.
No sound of merriment was now to be heard-no battledore and shuttlecockno ball, no marbles.
Some sat in a corner, whispering their wishes that Archer would unbar the doors, and give up.
Others, stretching their arms, and gaping as they sauntered up and down the room, wished for air, or food, or water.
Fisher and his nine, who had such firm dependence upon the gipsy, now gave themselves up to utter despair.
It was eight o'clock, growing darker and darker every minute, and no candles, no light could they have.
The prospect of another long dark night made them still more discontented.
Townsend, at the head of the yawners, and Fisher, at the head of the hungry malcontents, gathered round Archer and the few yet unconquered spirits, demanding " How long he meant to keep them in this dark dungeon?
and whether he expected that they should starve themselves for his sake?
The idea of GIVING UP was more intolerable to Archer than all the rest.
He saw that the majority, his own convincing argument, was against him.
He was therefore obliged to condescend to the arts of persuasion.
He flattered some with hopes of food from the town boys.
Some he reminded of their promises; others he praised for former prowess; and others he shamed by the repetition of their high vaunts in the beginning of the business.
It was at length resolved that at all events they WOULD HOLD OUT.
With this determination they stretched themselves again to sleep, for the second night, in weak and weary obstinacy.
Archer slept longer and more soundly than usual the next morning, and when he awoke, he found his hands tied behind him!
Three or four boys had just got hold of his feet, which they pressed down, whilst the trembling hands of Fisher were fastening the cord round them.
With all the force which rage could inspire, Archer struggled and roared to " HIS ARCHERS!
his friends, his party-for help against the traitors.
Townsend, in particular, stood laughing and looking on.
I'm so weak, I cannot help laughing today.
cried the least of the boys, and ran away, whilst Archer leaped up, and seizing hold of Fisher with a powerful grasp, sternly demanded " What he meant by this?
cried Archer, with a look of ineffable contempt; " you reptile- YOUR party?
Can such a thing as YOU have a party?
said Fisher, settling his collar, which Archer in his surprise had let go; " to be sure!
Any man who chooses it may have a party as well as yourself, I suppose.
At these words, spoken with much sullen importance, Archer, in spite of his vexation, could not help laughing.
Friend or foe, it's all the same to you.
I know how to value your friendship now.
You are a mighty good fellow when the sun shines; but let a storm come, and how you slink away!
At this instant, Archer felt the difference between A GOOD COMPANION and a good friend, a difference which some people do not discover till late in life.
And could ye stand by, and see my hands tied behind me like a thief's?
What signifies such a party-all mute?
and SUCH a manager, who can do nothing for one?
I've advised my party, if they've a mind not to be starved, to give you up for the ringleader, as you were; and Dr. Middleton will not let us all off, I daresay.
So, depending upon the sullen silence of the assembly, he again approached Archer with a cord.
Don't tie him," was feebly raised.
Archer stood still, but the moment Fisher touched him he knocked him down to the ground, and turning to the rest, with eyes sparkling with indignation, " Archers!
A voice at this instant was heard at the door.
A general shout of joy was sent forth by the voracious public.
De Grey promised, upon his honour, that if he would unbar the door nobody should come in with him, and no advantage should be taken of them.
This promise was enough even for Archer.
He pulled away the bar; the door opened, and having bargained for the liberty of Melson, the little boy, who had been shut in by mistake, De Grey entered with his basket of provisions, when he locked and barred the door instantly.
Joy and gratitude sparkled in every face when he unpacked his basket, and spread the table with a plentiful breakfast.
A hundred questions were asked him at once.
This business was quickly despatched by those who had not tasted food for a long while.
Their curiosity increased as their hunger diminished.
were questions reiterated from every mouth.
I am to stay here till you give up.
This was the only condition on which Dr. Middleton would allow me to bring you food, and he will allow no more.
Everyone looked at the empty basket.
But Archer, in whom half vanquished party spirit revived with the strength he had got from his breakfast, broke into exclamations in praise of De Grey's magnanimity, as he now imagined that De Grey had become one of themselves.
Even Caesar himself, after breakfast, is quite another thing!
added he, pointing to Archer.
We unbarred the door upon the faith of De Grey's promise-THAT was not giving up.
And it would have been just as difficult, I promise you, to persuade or convince me either that I should give up against my honour before breakfast as after.
This spirited speech was applauded by many, who had now forgotten the feelings of famine.
Not so Fisher, whose memory was upon this occasion very distinct.
Why, don't you remember that dinner-time, and supper-time and breakfast-time will come again?
So what signifies mouthing about persuading and convincing?
We will not go through again what we did yesterday!
I'd rather be flogged at once, as I have been many's the good time for a less thing.
I say, we'd better all be flogged at once, which must be the end of it sooner or later, than wait here to be without dinner, breakfast, and supper, all only because Mr. Archer won't give up because of his honour and nonsense!
Many prudent faces amongst the Fishermen seemed to deliberate at the close of this oration, in which the arguments were brought so " home to each man's business and bosom.
I have no power, no party, you see!
And now I find that I have no friends, I don't care what becomes of myself.
I suppose I'm to be given up as a ringleader.
Here's this Fisher, and a party of his Fishermen, were going to tie me hand and foot, if I had not knocked him down, just as you came to the door, De Grey; and now perhaps you will join Fisher's party against me.
De Grey was going to assure him that he had no intention of joining any party, when a sudden change appeared on Archer's countenance.
cried Archer, in an imperious tone, and there was silence.
Someone was heard to whistle the beginning of a tune, that was perfectly new to everybody present, except to Archer, who immediately whistled the conclusion.
cried he, looking at De Grey, with triumph; " that's a method of holding secret correspondence whilst a prisoner, which I learned from'Richard Coeur de Lion.'
I know how to make use of everything.
cried he, going to the ventilator.
We'll let it down, my lad, in a trice; bar me out who can!
Archer let down the bag with all the expedition of joy, and it was filled with all the expedition of fear.
make haste, for Heaven's sake!
said the voice from without; " the gardener will come from dinner, else, and we shall be caught.
He mounted guard all yesterday at the ventilator; and though I watched and watched till it was darker than pitch, I could not get near you.
I don't know what has taken him out of the way now.
The heavy bag was soon pulled up.
I've got the tailor's bag full, which is three times as large as yours, and I've changed clothes with the tailor's boy; so nobody took notice of me as I came down the street.
exclaimed Archer, " there's a noble fellow!
there's my own cousin, I acknowledge.
Several times the bag descended and ascended; and at every unlading of the crane, fresh acclamations were heard.
at length the boy with the tailor's bag cried.
A delightful review was now made of their treasure.
Busy hands arranged and sorted the heterogeneous mass.
Archer, in the height of his glory, looked on, the acknowledged master of the whole.
Townsend, who, in his prosperity as in adversity, saw and enjoyed the comic foibles of his friends, pushed De Grey, who was looking on with a more good-natured and more thoughtful air.
You are out of your wits, and therefore may set up for a hero.
I don't want to restrain anybody's wit; but I cannot say I admire puns.
I can never understand Townsend's PUNS.
Besides, anybody can make puns; and one doesn't want wit, either, at all times; for instance, when one is going to settle about dinner, or business of consequence.
continued he, with sudden familiarity; " WHAT A SIGHT OF GOOD THINGS ARE HERE!
I'm sure we are much obliged to you and your cousin.
I never thought he'd have come.
Why, now we can hold out as long as you please.
Let us see," said he, dividing the provisions upon the table; " we can hold out to-day, and all to-morrow, and part of next day, maybe.
Why, now we may defy the doctor and the Greybeards.
The doctor will surely give up to us; for, you see, he knows nothing of all this, and he'll think we are starving all this while; and he'd be afraid, you see, to let us starve quite, in reality, for three whole days, because of what would be said in the town.
My Aunt Barbara, for one, would be AT HIM long before that time was out; and besides, you know, in that case, he'd be hanged for murder, which is quite another thing, in law, from a BARRING OUT, you know.
Archer had not given to this harangue all the attention which it deserved, for his eye was fixed upon De Grey.
The gardener was ordered away from his watch-post for one half-hour when I was admitted.
This half-hour the gardener has made nearly a hour.
I never would have come near you if I had foreseen all this.
Dr. Middleton trusted me, and now he will repent of his confidence in me.
cried Archer, with energy, " he shall not repent of his confidence in you-nor shall you repent of coming amongst us.
You shall find that we have some honour as well as yourself, and I will take care of your honour as if it were my OWN!
interrupted Townsend; " are heroes allowed to change sides, pray?
And does the chief of the Archers stand talking sentiment to the chief of the Greybeards?
In the middle of his own party too!
repeated Archer, disdainfully; " I have done with parties!
I see what parties are made of!
I have felt the want of a friend, and I am determined to make one if I can.
I give up for De Grey's sake.
He shall not lose his credit on my account.
Oh, the first thing that a man of spirit should think of is, what is HONOURABLE.
Is it not, therefore, best to begin by reasoning to find out the right AT FIRST?
And did you find out that it was right to bar Dr. Middleton out of his own schoolroom, because he desired you not to go into one of his own houses?
Now you are my friend indeed.
Then, indeed you are unreasonable!
If you yield to reason, you will be governed by reason another time.
said De Grey; " for now you are on THE BEST SIDE as well as myself, are not you?
So we may triumph together.
said Archer; and with great eagerness he pulled down the fortifications, whilst every hand assisted.
The room was restored to order in a few minutes-the shutters were thrown open, the cheerful light let in.
The windows were thrown up, and the first feeling of the fresh air was delightful.
The green playgound opened before them, and the hopes of exercise and liberty brightened the countenances of these voluntary prisoners.
they were not yet at liberty.
The idea of Dr. Middleton, and the dread of his vengeance, smote their hearts.
When the rebels had sent an ambassador with their surrender, they stood in pale and silent suspense, waiting for their doom.
said Fisher, looking up at the broken panes in the windows, " the doctor will think the most of THAT-he'll never forgive us for that.
His steady step was heard approaching nearer and nearer.
Archer threw open the door, and Dr. Middleton entered.
Fisher instantly fell on his knees.
I hope you are all conscious that you have done wrong?
Punish me as you think proper.
Your punishments-your vengeance ought to fall on me alone!
Punishment and vengeance do not with us mean the same thing.
PUNISHMENT is pain given, with the reasonable hope of preventing those on whom it is inflicted from doing, IN FUTURE, what will hurt themselves or others.
VENGEANCE never looks to the FUTURE, but is the expression of anger for an injury that is past.
I feel no anger; you have done me no injury.
Here many of the little boys looked timidly up to the windows.
exclaimed those who had been most panic-struck.
I shall never revenge, but it is my duty to punish.
You have rebelled against the just authority which is necessary to conduct and govern you whilst you have not sufficient reason to govern and conduct yourselves.
Without obedience to the laws," added he, turning to Archer, " as men, you cannot be suffered in society.
You, sir, think yourself a man, I observe; and you think it the part of a man not to submit to the will of another.
I have no pleasure in making others, whether men or children, submit to my WILL; but my reason and experience are superior to yours.
Your parents at least think so, or they would not have intrusted me with the care of your education.
As long as they do intrust you to my care, and as long as I have any hopes of making you wiser and better by punishment, I shall steadily inflict it, whenever I judge it to be necessary, and I judge it to be necessary NOW.
This is a long sermon, Mr. Archer, not preached to show my own eloquence, but to convince your understanding.
Now, as to your punishment!
Archer, proud to be treated like a reasonable creature, and sorry that he had behaved like a foolish schoolboy, was silent for some time, but at length replied, " That he would rather not name his own punishment.
He repeated, however, that he trusted he should bear it well, whatever it might be.
This guinea is all that I have left.
Dr. Middleton received the guinea which Archer offered him with a look of approbation, and told him that it should be applied to the repairs of the schoolroom.
The rest of the boys waited in silence for the doctor's sentence against them, but not with those looks of abject fear with which boys usually expect the sentence of a schoolmaster.
A bell shall ring at the appointed time.
I give you an opportunity of recovering my confidence by your punctuality.
we will come the instant, the very instant the bell rings; you shall have confidence in us," cried they, eagerly.
You do not know the pain that it has cost me to deprive you of food for so many hours.
Here the boys, with one accord, ran to the place where they had deposited their last supplies.
Archer delivered them up to the doctor, proud to show that they were not reduced to obedience merely by necessity.
I did not choose to mention my reason to you or your friends.
I have had the place cleaned, and you may return to it when you please.
The gipsies were yesterday removed from the town.
the paper appeared to be a bill for candles and a tinder-box.
To obtain credit for the tinder-box and candles, he made use of THIS name," said he, turning to the other side of the bill, and pointing to De Grey's name, which was written at the end of a copy of one of De Grey's exercises.
When the people in the shop refused to let Mr. Fisher have the things without paying for them, he made use of De Grey's name, who was known there.
Suspecting some mischief, however, from the purchase of the tinder-box, the shopkeeper informed me of the circumstance.
Nothing in this whole business gave me half so much pain as I felt, for a moment, when I suspected that De Grey was concerned in it.
A loud cry, in which Archer's voice was heard most distinctly, declared De Grey's innocence.
Dr. Middleton looked round at their eager, honest faces, with benevolent approbation.
I wish you may keep such a friend as you have now beside you; one such friend is worth two such parties.
As for you, Mr. Fisher, depart; you must never return hither again.
In vain he solicited Archer and De Grey to intercede for him.
Everybody turned away with contempt; and he sneaked out, whimpering in a doleful voice, " What shall I say to my Aunt Barbara?
In a beautiful and retired part of England lived Mrs. Villars, a lady whose accurate understanding, benevolent heart, and steady temper peculiarly fitted her for the most difficult, as well as most important, of all occupations-the education of youth.
This task she had undertaken; and twenty young persons were put under her care, with the perfect confidence of their parents.
No young people could be happier; they were good and gay, emulous, but not envious of each other; for Mrs. Villars was impartially just; her praise they felt to be the reward of merit, and her blame they knew to be the necessary consequence of ill-conduct.
To the one, therefore, they patiently submitted, and in the other consciously rejoiced.
They rose with fresh cheerfulness in the morning, eager to pursue their various occupations.
They returned in the evening with renewed ardour to their amusements, and retired to rest satisfied with themselves and pleased with each other.
Nothing so much contributed to preserve a spirit of emulation in this little society as a small honorary distinction, given annually, as a prize of successful application.
The prize this year was peculiarly dear to each individual, as it was the picture of a friend whom they dearly loved.
It was the picture of Mrs. Villars in a small bracelet.
It wanted neither gold, pearls nor precious stones to give it value.
The two foremost candidates for this prize were Cecilia and Leonora.
Cecilia was the most intimate friend of Leonora; but Leonora was only the favourite companion of Cecilia.
Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterprising disposition, more eager in the pursuit than happy in the enjoyment of her wishes.
Leonora was of a contented, unaspiring temperate character; not easily roused to action, but indefatigable when once excited.
Leonora was proud; Cecilia was vain.
Her vanity made her more dependent upon the approbation of others, and therefore more anxious to please than Leonora; but that very vanity made her, at the same time, more apt to offend.
In short, Leonora was the most anxious to avoid what was wrong; Cecilia, the most ambitious to do what was right.
Few of her companions loved, but many were led by Cecilia, for she was often successful.
Many loved Leonora, but none were ever governed by her, for she was too indolent to govern.
On the first day of May, about six o'clock in the evening, a great bell rang, to summon this little society into a hall, where the prize was to be decided.
A number of small tables were placed in a circle in the middle of the hall.
Seats for the young competitors were raised one above another, in a semicircle, some yards distant from the table, and the judges'chairs, under canopies of lilacs and laburnums, forming another semicircle, closed the amphitheatre.
Everyone put their writings, their drawings, their works of various kinds upon the tables appropriated for each.
How unsteady were the last steps to these tables!
How each little hand trembled as it laid down its claims!
Till this moment everyone thought herself secure of success; and the heart, which exulted with hope, now palpitated with fear.
The works were examined, the preference adjudged, and the prize was declared to be the happy Cecilia's.
Mrs. Villars came forward, smiling, with the bracelet in her hand.
Cecilia was behind her companions, on the highest row.
All the others gave way, and she was on the floor in an instant.
Mrs. Villars clasped the bracelet on her arm; the clasp was heard through the whole hall, and a universal smile of congratulation followed.
Mrs. Villars kissed Cecilia's little hand.
you whose hearts are elated with success, whose bosoms beat high with joy in the moment of triumph, command yourselves.
Let that triumph be moderate, that it may be lasting.
Consider, that though you are good, you may be better; and, though wise, you may be weak.
As soon as Mrs. Villars had given her the bracelet, all Cecilia's little companions crowded round her, and they all left the hall in an instant.
She was full of spirits and vanity.
Running down the flight of steps which led to the garden, in her violent haste, Cecilia threw down the little Louisa, who had a china mandarin in her hand, which her mother had sent her that very morning, and which was all broken to pieces by her fall.
cried Louisa, bursting into tears.
The crowd behind Cecilia suddenly stopped.
Louisa sat on the lowest step, fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces.
Then, turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon the step above her.
In turning, Louisa threw down the remains of the mandarin.
The head, which she placed in the socket, fell from the shoulders, and rolled, bounding along the gravel walk.
Cecilia pointed to the head and to the socket, and burst into laughter.
The crowd behind laughed, too.
At any other time they would have been more inclined to cry with Louisa; but Cecilia had just been successful, and sympathy with the victorious often makes us forget justice.
Leonora, however, preserved her usual consistency.
said she, looking first at her, and then reproachfully at Cecilia.
Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, half with shame and half with vexation.
I can buy her another mandarin when the old peddler comes to the door, if that's all.
said she, again turning round to her companions.
Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora.
Leonora let go her hand; she ran on, and the crowd followed.
When she got to the end of the garden, she turned round to see if Leonora had followed her, too; but was vexed to see her still sitting on the steps with Louisa.
said she, again appealing to her companions.
How many games did these juvenile playmates begin and leave off, before Cecilia could be satisfied with any!
Her thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was running upon something else.
No wonder, then, that she did not play with her usual address.
She grew still more impatient.
She threw down the ninepins.
They all yielded to the hand which wore the bracelet.
But Cecilia, dissatisfied with herself, was discontented with everybody else.
Her tone grew more and more peremptory.
One was too rude, another too stiff; one too slow, another too quick; in short everything went wrong, and everybody was tired of her humours.
The triumph of SUCCESS is absolute, but short.
Cecilia's companions at length recollected that though she had embroidered a tulip, and painted a peach, better than they, yet that they could play as well, and keep their tempers better; for she was discomposed.
Walking towards the house in a peevish mood, Cecilia met Leonora, but passed on.
Cecilia, interrupting her, " Oh, pray let me hear no more about Louisa!
not confess that you were in the wrong?
I had a better opinion of you.
I am not unjust; and if I were, you are not my governess.
How could I tell that she had a mandarin in her hand?
and when it was broken, could I do more than promise her another; was that unjust?
exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly.
Leonora made no answer; for she was really hurt at her friend's conduct.
She walked on to join the rest of her companions.
They were dancing in a round upon the grass.
Leonora declined dancing; but they prevailed upon her to sing for them.
Her voice was not so sprightly, but it was sweeter than usual.
Who sang so sweetly as Leonora?
or who danced so nimbly as Louisa?
Away she was flying, all spirits and gaiety, when Leonora's eyes full of tears, caught hers.
Louisa silently let go her companion's hand, and, quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her.
Go, my dear; go and dance again.
Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling off her little straw hat, she lined it with the freshest strawberry-leaves, and was upon her knees before the strawberry-bed when Cecilia came by.
Cecilia was not disposed to be pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons; because she was jealous of her, and because she had injured her.
The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten.
Perhaps to tell things just as they were, she was not quite so much inclined to kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the fall of her mandarin; but this was the utmost extent of her malice, if it can be called malice.
said Cecilia, in a sharp tone.
I'm not playing with you, child!
I have not eaten one of them; they are all for your friend Leonora.
that's a cant word which you learnt of my friend Leonora, as you call her; but she is not my friend now.
exclaimed Louisa; " then I am sure you must have done something VERY naughty.
cried Cecilia, catching hold of her.
cried Louisa, struggling.
cried Cecilia, provoked, and, catching the hat from Louisa, she flung the strawberries over the hedge.
exclaimed Louisa, snatching her hat again, and running away with all her force.
said Cecilia, recollecting herself; " Louisa!
she called very loud, but Louisa would not turn back; she was running to her companions, who were still dancing, hand in hand, upon the grass, whilst Leonora, sitting in the middle, was singing to them.
cried Louisa, breaking through them; and, rushing up to Leonora, she threw her hat at her feet, and panting for breath --" It was full-almost full of my own strawberries," said she, " the first I ever got out of my garden.
They should all have been for you, Leonora; but now I have not one left.
said she; and she hid her face in Leonora's lap.
said everyone, at once running up to her.
Leonora took her up in her arms to carry her away, but it was too late.
Cecilia, who won the prize!
It could not surely be Cecilia," whispered every busy tongue.
At this instant the bell summoned them in.
cried they, pointing to an arbour, where Cecilia was standing ashamed and alone; and, as they passed her, some lifted up their hands and eyes with astonishment, others whispered and huddled mysteriously together, as if to avoid her.
Leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual.
said Cecilia, timorously, as she passed.
who would have thought that you had a bad heart?
Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into tears.
cried Louisa, running up to her and throwing her arms around her neck.
But don't cry any more, for I forgive you, with all my heart-and I love you now, though I said I did not when I was in a passion.
said Cecilia, kissing her.
Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she was out of sight.
Mrs. Villars told me that this day should be mine.
She little thought how it would end!
Saying these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon the ground; her arm leaned upon a heap of turf which she had raised in the morning, and which, in the pride and gaiety of her heart, she had called her throne.
At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity of the evening, and, passing by the arbour where Cecilia lay, she started.
Where are your companions?
This is, perhaps, one of the happiest days of your life.
You know that when I ask you to tell me anything as your friend, I never punish you as your governess; therefore you need not be afraid to tell me what is the matter.
You asked me why I was not with my companions.
Why, madam, because they have all left me, and --
All my masters seem satisfied with me; and you yourself, madam, were pleased this very morning to give me this bracelet; and I am sure you would not have given it to anyone who did not deserve it.
The prize was for the most assiduous, not for the most amiable.
Mrs. Villars, smiling-" Why, what do you think yourself, Cecilia?
You are better able to judge than I am.
I can determine whether or no you apply to what I give you to learn; whether you attend to what I desire you to do, and avoid what I desire you not to do.
I know that I like you as a pupil, but I cannot know that I should like you as a companion, unless I were your companion.
Therefore I must judge of what I should do, by seeing what others do in the same circumstances.
for then you would not love me either.
And yet I think you would love me; for I hope that I am as ready to oblige, and as good-natured as --
Without disputing about the right, she sometimes yields to those who are in the wrong.
In short, her temper is perfectly good; for it can bear and forbear.
Turn the same exertion and perseverance which have won you the prize to-day to this object, and you will meet with the same success; perhaps not on the first, the second, or the third attempt; but depend upon it that you will at last.
Every new effort will weaken your bad habits, and strengthen your good ones.
But you must not expect to succeed all at once.
I repeat it to you, for habit must be counteracted by habit.
Here Mrs. Villars took Cecilia by the hand, and they began to walk home.
Such was the nature of Cecilia's mind, that when any object was forcibly impressed on her imagination, it caused a temporary suspension of her reasoning faculties.
Hope was too strong a stimulus for her spirits; and when fear did take possession of her mind, it was attended with total debility.
Her vanity was now as much mortified as in the morning it had been elated.
She walked on with Mrs. Villars in silence, until they came under the shade of the elm-tree walk, and there, fixing her eyes upon Mrs. Villars, she stopped short.
why, what put that into your head?
However, in the first place, tell me what you mean by a bad heart.
There is still something else meant; something which I cannot express-which, indeed, I never distinctly understood; but of which, therefore, I was the more afraid.
No human being becomes wicked all at once.
A man begins by doing wrong because it is, or because he thinks it, for his interest.
If he continue to do so, he must conquer his sense of shame and lose his love of virtue.
But how can you, Cecilia, who feel such a strong sense of shame, and such an eager desire to improve, imagine that you have a bad heart?
This very evening, madam, when I was in a passion, I threw little Louisa's strawberries away, which, I am sure, I was very sorry for afterwards; and Leonora and everybody cried out that I had a bad heart-but I am sure I was only in a passion.
And when you are in a passion, as you call it, Cecilia, you see that you are tempted to do harm to others.
If they do not feel angry themselves, they do not sympathize with you.
They do not perceive the motive which actuates you; and then they say that you have a bad heart.
I daresay, however, when your passion is over, and when you recollect yourself, you are very sorry for what you have done and said; are not you?
I hope-I am sure I never shall.
Show me that you have as much perseverance as you have candour, and I shall not despair of your becoming everything that I could wish.
Here Cecilia's countenance brightened, and she ran up the steps in almost as high spirits as she ran down them in the morning.
She could not go to sleep; but she lay awake, reflecting upon the events of the preceding day, and forming resolutions for the future, at the same time that she had resolved, and resolved without effect, she wished to give her mind some more powerful motive.
Ambition she knew to be its most powerful incentive.
Mrs. Villars said that if the prize had been promised to the most amiable, it would not have been given to me.
Perhaps it would not yesterday, perhaps it might not to-morrow; but that is no reason that I should despair of ever deserving it.
In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia formed a design of proposing to her companions that they should give a prize, the first of the ensuing month (the lst of June), to the most amiable.
Mrs. Villars applauded the scheme, and her companions adopted it with the greatest alacrity.
They formed the most beautiful gradation of colours, from the palest auburn to the brightest black.
Who was to have the honour of plaiting them?
Caroline begged that she might, as she could plait very neatly, she said.
For it is habit which confers ease; and without ease, even in moral actions, there can be no grace.
The bracelet was plaited in the neatest manner by Caroline, finished round the edge with silver twist, and on it was worked, in the smallest silver letters, this motto, " TO THE MOST AMIABLE.
The moment it was completed, everybody begged to try it on.
It fastened with little silver clasps, and as it was made large enough for the eldest girls, it was too large for the youngest.
Of this they bitterly complained, and unanimously entreated that it might be cut to fit them.
exclaimed Cecilia; " don't you perceive that if any of you win it, you have nothing to do but to put the clips a little further from the edge, but if we get it, we can't make it larger?
It was by such hasty and unguarded expressions as these that Cecilia offended.
A slight difference in the manner makes a very material one in the effect.
Cecilia lost more love by general petulance than she could gain by the greatest particular exertions.
How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect-how far she became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given-shall be told in the History of the First of June.
The First of June was now arrived, and all the young competitors were in a state of the most anxious suspense.
Leonora and Cecilia continued to be the foremost candidates.
Cecilia, though she was capable of acknowledging any of her faults in public before all her companions, could not humble herself in private to Leonora.
Leonora was her equal; they were her inferiors, and submission is much easier to a vain mind, where it appears to be voluntary, than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or candour.
So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth, that she even delayed making any apology, or coming to any explanation with Leonora, until success should once more give her the palm.
Animated with this hope of a double triumph, Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity.
By constant attention and exertion she had considerably abated the violence of her temper, and changed the course of her habits.
Her powers of pleasing were now excited, instead of her abilities to excel; and, if her talents appeared less brilliant, her character was acknowledged to be more amiable.
So great an influence upon our manners and conduct have the objects of our ambition.
Cecilia was now, if possible, more than ever desirous of doing what was right, but she had not yet acquired sufficient fear of doing wrong.
This was the fundamental error of her mind; it arose in a great measure from her early education.
This brother was some years older than Cecilia, but he had always been the favourite companion of her youth.
What her father's precepts inculcated, his example enforced; and even Cecilia's virtues consequently became such as were more estimable in a man than desirable in a female.
Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by her mother in a manner more suited to her sex, had a character and virtues more peculiar to a female.
Her judgment had been early cultivated, and her good sense employed in the regulation of her conduct.
She had been habituated to that restraint, which, as a woman, she was to expect in life, and early accustomed to yield.
Compliance in her seemed natural and graceful; yet notwithstanding the gentleness of her temper, she was in reality more independent than Cecilia.
She had more reliance upon her own judgment, and more satisfaction in her own approbation.
The uniform kindness of her manner, the consistency and equality of her character, had fixed the esteem and passive love of her companions.
By passive love we mean that species of affection which makes us unwilling to offend rather than anxious to oblige, which is more a habit than an emotion of the mind.
For Cecilia her companions felt active love, for she was active in showing her love to them.
Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, after feeling particular instances of kindness, without reflection on the past conduct or general character.
It exceeds the merits of its object, and is connected with a feeling of generosity, rather than with a sense of justice.
Without determining which species of love is the most flattering to others, we can easily decide which is the most agreeable feeling to our minds.
We give our hearts more credit for being generous than for being just; and we feel more self-complacency when we give our love voluntarily, than when we yield it as a tribute which we cannot withhold.
Though Cecilia's companions might not know all this in theory, they proved it in practice; for they loved her in a much higher proportion to her merits than they loved Leonora.
Each of the young judges were to signify their choice by putting a red or a white shell into a vase prepared for the purpose.
Cecilia's colour was red, Leonora's white.
In the morning nothing was to be seen but these shells; nothing talked of but the long expected event of the evening.
Cecilia, following Leonora's example, had made it a point of honour not to inquire of any individual her vote, previously to their final determination.
They were both sitting together in Louisa's room.
Louisa was recovering from the measles.
Everyone during her illness had been desirous of attending her; but Leonora and Cecilia were the only two that were permitted to see her, as they alone had had the distemper.
They were both assiduous in their care of Louisa, but Leonora's want of exertion to overcome any disagreeable feelings of sensibility often deprived her of presence of mind, and prevented her from being so constantly useful as Cecilia.
Cecilia, on the contrary, often made too much noise and bustle with her officious assistance, and was too anxious to invent amusements and procure comforts for Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes away the power of enjoying them.
As she was sitting at the window in the morning, exerting herself to entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an old peddler who often used to come to the house.
Downstairs they ran immediately, to ask Mrs. Villars'permission to bring him into the hall.
Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran to proclaim the news to her companions.
Then, first returning into the hall, she found the peddler just unbuckling his box, and taking it off his shoulders.
said the peddler; " I've all kinds of tweezer-cases, rings, and lockets of all sorts," continued he, opening all the glittering drawers successively.
said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of lockets which tempted her most, " these are not the things which I want.
Have you any china figures?
Cecilia paid the money, and was just going to carry off the mandarin, when the peddler took out of his great-coat pocket a neat mahogany case.
It was about a foot long, and fastened at each end by two little clasps.
It had besides, a small lock in the middle.
It was a figure of Flora, crowned with roses, and carrying a basket of flowers in her hand.
Cecilia contemplated it with delight.
said she to herself; and, at last, breaking silence, " Did you promise it to the old lady?
Cecilia immediately produced the box in which she kept her treasure, and, emptying it upon the table, she began to count the shillings.
there were but six shillings.
said she; " then I can't have it.
Oh, I have it," said she, taking it up, and looking at it with the utmost disgust.
Now this box was a keepsake from Leonora to Cecilia.
said he, returning it carelessly, " I hope there's no offence.
I meant but to serve you, that's all.
Such a rare piece of china-work has no cause to go a-begging," added he.
Then, putting the Flora deliberately into the case, and turning the key with a jerk, he let it drop into his pocket; when, lifting up his box by the leather straps, he was preparing to depart.
said Cecilia, in whose mind there had passed a very warm conflict during the peddler's harangue.
Though, when I come to look at this mandarin, it is not even so good as hers was.
The gilding is all rubbed off, so that I absolutely must buy this for her.
I will, and she will be so delighted!
and then everybody will say it is the prettiest thing they ever saw, and the broken mandarin will be forgotten for ever.
Here Cecilia's hand moved, and she was just going to decide: " Oh, but stop," said she to herself, " consider-Leonora gave me this box, and it is a keepsake.
However, we have now quarrelled, and I dare say that she would not mind my parting with it.
I'm sure that I should not care if she was to give away my keepsake, the smelling-bottle, or the ring which I gave her.
Then what does it signify?
Besides, is it not my own?
and have I not a right to do what I please with it?
At this moment, so critical for Cecilia, a party of her companions opened the door.
She knew that they came as purchasers, and she dreaded her Flora's becoming the prize of some higher bidder.
Her hand trembled, though she snatched it impatiently.
She ran by, without seeming to mind any of her companions.
Let those who are tempted to do wrong by the hopes of future gratification, or the prospect of certain concealment and impunity, remember that, unless they are totally depraved, they bear in their own hearts a monitor, who will prevent their enjoying what they ill obtained.
Cecilia was still displeased with herself, with them, and even with their praise.
From Louisa's gratitude, however, she yet expected much pleasure, and immediately she ran upstairs to her room.
In the meantime, Leonora had gone into the hall to buy a bodkin; she had just broken hers.
In giving her change, the peddler took out of his pocket, with some halfpence, the very box which Cecilia had sold to him.
Leonora did not in the least suspect the truth, for her mind was above suspicion; and besides, she had the utmost confidence in Cecilia.
The peddler named the price, and Leonora took the box.
She intended to give it to little Louisa.
On going to her room she found her asleep, and she sat softly down by her bedside.
I didn't hear you come in; but what have you got there?
I bought on purpose for you, as I thought perhaps it would please you, because it's like that which I gave Cecilia.
that out of which she used to give me Barbary drops.
I am very much obliged to you; I always thought that exceedingly pretty, and this, indeed, is as like it as possible.
I can't unscrew it; will you try?
exclaimed Louisa, " this must be Cecilia's box.
Look, don't you see a great L at the bottom of it?
Leonora's colour changed.
You know that I bought this box just now of the peddler.
Do go and ask her if she has lost her box-do," repeated Louisa, pulling her by the ruffle, as she did not seem to listen.
Leonora, indeed, did not hear, for she was lost in thought.
She was comparing circumstances, which had before escaped her attention.
She recollected that Cecilia had passed her as she came into the hall, without seeming to see her, but had blushed as she passed.
She remembered that the peddler appeared unwilling to part with the box, and was going to put it again in his pocket with the halfpence.
Combining all these circumstances, Leonora had no longer any doubt of the truth, for though she had honourable confidence in her friends, she had too much penetration to be implicitly credulous.
I daresay she had lost it.
Cecilia opened the door, came forward smiling, as if secure of a good reception, and taking the Flora out of the case, she placed it on the mantlepiece, opposite to Louisa's bed.
cried Louisa, starting up.
said the ingenuous Louisa.
You know that I broke your mandarin.
I should only have done what I was bound to do if I had only given you a mandarin.
and then that basket of flowers!
they almost look as if I could smell them.
Dear Cecilia, I'm very much obliged to you; but I won't take it by way of payment for the mandarin you broke; for I'm sure you could not help that, and, besides, I should have broken it myself by this time.
You shall give it to me entirely; and as your keepsake, I'll keep it as long as I live.
Louisa stopped short and coloured; the word keepsake recalled the box to her mind, and all the train of ideas which the Flora had banished.
Leonora, who was just quitting the room, turned her head back, and gave Louisa a look, which silenced her.
Good-bye," said she, running up and kissing her; " but I'll come again presently," then, clapping the door after her she went.
But as soon as the formentation of her spirits subsided, the sense of shame, which had been scarcely felt when mixed with so many other sensations, rose uppermost in her mind.
said she to herself, " is it possible that I have sold what I promised to keep for ever?
and what Leonora gave me?
and I have concealed it too, and have been making a parade of my generosity.
what would Leonora, what would Louisa-what would everybody think of me, if the truth were known?
Humiliated and grieved by these reflections, Cecilia began to search in her own mind for some consoling idea.
Her father's word to her brother, on the occasion, she also perfectly recollected.
These were his words; but Cecilia, in repeating them to herself, forgot to lay that emphasis on the word MEN, which would have placed it in contradistinction to the word WOMEN.
She willingly believed that the observation extended equally to both sexes, and flattered herself that she should exceed her brother in merit if she owned a fault, which she thought that it would be so much more difficult to confess.
This very evening, in a few hours, the prize will be decided.
Leonora or I shall win it.
I have now as good a chance as Leonora, perhaps a better; and must I give up all my hopes-all that I have been labouring for this month past?
If it were but to-morrow, or yesterday, or any day but this, I would not hesitate; but now I am almost certain of the prize, and if I win it-well, why then I will-I think I will tell all-yes I will; I am determined," said Cecilia.
Here a bell summoned them to dinner.
Leonora sat opposite to her, and she was not a little surprised to see Cecilia look so gay and unconstrained.
But Leonora little knew the cause of her gaiety.
Cecilia was never in higher spirits, or better pleased with herself, than when she had resolved upon a sacrifice or a confession.
All eyes glanced first at Cecilia, and then at Leonora.
Cecilia smiled; Leonora blushed.
Cecilia's voice could be distinguished far above the rest.
when we were always together the best of friends and companions; our wishes, tastes, and pleasures the same!
Surely she did once love me," said Leonora; " but now she is quite changed.
Oh, that this bracelet had never been thought of, or that I were certain of her winning it; for I am sure that I do not wish to win it from her.
I would rather-a thousand times rather-that we were as we used to be than have all the glory in the world.
And how pleasing Cecilia can be when she wishes to please- how candid she is- how much she can improve herself!
Let me be just, though she has offended me; she is wonderfully improved within this last month.
For one fault, and THAT against myself, shall I forget all her merits?
As Leonora said these last words, she could but just hear the voices of her companions.
They had left her alone in the gallery.
She knocked softly at Louisa's door.
Oh," said she, starting up with the Flora in her hand, the instant that the door was opened; " I'm so glad you are come, Leonora, for I did so long to hear what you all were making such a noise about.
Have you forgot that the bracelet --
I know that she is particularly anxious for your preference, and I am sure that she deserves it.
I should not feel the least more pleasure at hearing it in public, or in having it made known to all my companions, especially at a time when it would give poor Cecilia a great deal of pain.
asked Louisa; " I don't like her for being jealous of you.
She only tries to excel, and to please; she is more anxious to succeed than I am, it is true, because she has a great deal more activity, and perhaps more ambition.
And it would really mortify her to lose this prize-you know that she proposed it herself.
It has been her object for this month past, and I am sure she has taken great pains to obtain it.
Here Leonora heard a number of her companions running along the gallery.
They all knocked hastily at the door, calling " Leonora!
Cecilia has been with us this half-hour.
said the little Louisa, and the tears started into her eyes.
called her impatient companions; " don't you hear us?
cried Louisa; " don't stay; they are so angry.
During all this time, Cecilia had been in the garden with her companions.
The ambition which she had felt to win the first prize-the prize of superior talents and superior application-was not to be compared to the absolute anxiety which she now expressed to win this simple testimony of the love and approbation of her equals and rivals.
To employ her exuberant activity, Cecilia had been dragging branches of lilacs and laburnums, roses and sweet briar, to ornament the bower in which her fate was to be decided.
It was excessively hot, but her mind was engaged, and she was indefatigable.
She stood still at last to admire her works.
Her companions all joined in loud applause.
They were not a little prejudiced in her favour by the great eagerness which she expressed to win their prize, and by the great importance which she seemed to affix to the preference of each individual.
At last, " Where is Leonora?
cried one of them; and immediately, as we have seen, they ran to call her.
Overcome with heat and too violent exertion, she had hardly strength to support herself; each moment appeared to her intolerably long.
She was in a state of the utmost suspense, and all her courage failed her.
Even hope forsook her; and hope is a cordial which leaves the mind depressed and enfeebled.
In a few moments-goodness!
If I should not win the prize, how shall I confess what I have done?
How shall I beg Leonora to forgive me?
I, who hoped to restore my friendship to her as an honour!
They are gone to seek for her.
The moment she appears I shall be forgotten.
said Cecilia, covering her face with her hands.
Such was Cecilia's situation when Leonora, accompanied by her companions, opened the hall door.
They most of them ran forwards to Cecilia.
As Leonora came into the bower, she held out her hand to Cecilia.
Cecilia clasped her hand; but she was in too great agitation to speak.
The table was now set in the arbour-the vase was now placed in the middle.
said Cecilia, eagerly, " who begins?
Caroline, one of her friends, came forward first, and then all the others successively.
Cecilia's emotion was hardly conceivable.
There was a dead silence.
Then, snatching the bracelet, " It is yours, Leonora," said she; " take it, and give me back your friendship.
The whole assembly gave one universal clap and a general shout of applause.
don't praise me; I don't deserve this," said she, turning to her loudly applauding companions.
Oh, Leonora, you will never forgive me!
I have deceived you; I have sold --
At this instant, Mrs. Villars appeared.
She had heard all that passed, from her window.
You have not it in your power to give the prize to Leonora.
I have another vote to give to you.
You have forgotten Louisa.
exclaimed Cecilia; " but surely, ma'am, Louisa loves Leonora better than she does me.
Cecilia started, and turned as pale as death; it was the fatal box!
Mrs. Villars produced another box.
She opened it; it contained the Flora.
She put it into Cecilia's hand.
Cecilia trembled so that she could not hold it.
exclaimed Cecilia; " now I have no hope left.
I intended-I was just going to tell --
It is she who has given you the prize; it was she who persuaded Louisa to give you her vote.
I went to see her a little while ago; and perceiving, by her countenance, that something was the matter, I pressed her to tell me what it was.
Now I don't love Cecilia half so well as I do Leonora.
Besides, I would not have Cecilia think I vote for her because she gave me a Flora.'
Whilst Louisa was speaking," continued Mrs. Villars, " I saw this silver box lying on the bed.
I took it up, and asked if it was not yours, and how she came by it.
If anybody else had told me so, I could not have believed them, because I remember the box so well; but I can't help believing Leonora.'
But did not you ask Cecilia about it?
Well, said I, give me the box, and I will carry your shell in it to Cecilia.
exclaimed Cecilia; " but, indeed, Leonora, I cannot take your shell.
you cannot refuse it; I only follow your example.
As for the bracelet," added Leonora, taking Cecilia's hand, " I assure you I don't wish for it, and you do, and you deserve it.
Next to you, surely Louisa deserves it best.
oh, yes, Louisa," exclaimed everybody with one voice.
For one fault I cannot forget all your merits, Cecilia, nor, I am sure, will your companions.
Everybody present was moved.
They looked up to Leonora with respectful and affectionate admiration.
and how I wish to be like you!
exclaimed Cecilia --" to be as good, as generous!
Remember, that many of our sex are capable of great efforts-of making what they call great sacrifices to virtue or to friendship; but few treat their friends with habitual gentleness, or uniformly conduct themselves with prudence and good sense.
Chi di gallina nasce, convien che rozole.
As the old cock crows, so crows the young.
Those who have visited Italy give us an agreeable picture of the cheerful industry of the children of all ages in the celebrated city of Naples.
Their manner of living and their numerous employments are exactly described in the following " Extract from a Traveller's Journal.
Hence they proceed with their baskets into the heart of the city, where in several places they form a sort of little market, sitting round with their stock of wood before them.
Labourers, and the lower order of citizens, buy it of them to burn in the tripods for warming themselves, or to use in their scanty kitchens.
Others again endeavour to turn a few pence by buying a small matter of fruit, of pressed honey, cakes, and comfits, and then, like little peddlers, offer and sell them to other children, always for no more profit than that they may have their share of them free of expense.
The advantages of truth and honesty, and the value of a character for integrity, are very early felt amongst these little merchants in their daily intercourse with each other.
The fair dealer is always sooner or later seen to prosper.
The most cunning cheat is at last detected and disgraced.
Francisco was the son of an honest gardener, who, from the time he could speak, taught him to love to speak the truth, showed him that liars are never believed-that cheats and thieves cannot be trusted, and that the shortest way to obtain a good character is to deserve it.
Youth and white paper, as the proverb says, take all impressions.
The boy profited much by his father's precepts, and more by his example; he always heard his father speak the truth, and saw that he dealt fairly with everybody.
In all his childish traffic, Francisco, imitating his parents, was scrupulously honest, and therefore all his companions trusted him --" As honest as Francisco," became a sort of proverb amongst them.
With the idea of making his son SHARP he made him cunning.
He taught him, that to make a GOOD BARGAIN was to deceive as to the value and price of whatever he wanted to dispose of; to get as much money as possible from customers by taking advantage of their ignorance or of their confidence.
He often repeated his favourite proverb --" The buyer has need of a hundred eyes; the seller has need but of one.
He was a fisherman; and as his gains depended more upon fortune than upon prudence, he trusted habitually to his good luck.
After being idle for a whole day, he would cast his line or his nets, and if he was lucky enough to catch a fine fish, he would go and show it in triumph to his neighbour the gardener.
Upon these occasions, our fisherman always forgot, or neglected to count, the hours and days which were wasted in waiting for a fair wind to put to sea, or angling in vain on the shore.
Little Piedro, who used to bask in the sun upon the sea-shore beside his father, and to lounge or sleep away his time in a fishing-boat, acquired habits of idleness, which seemed to his father of little consequence whilst he was BUT A CHILD.
Scarcely a day has passed for this fortnight but I have caught him amongst my grapes.
I track his footsteps all over my vineyard.
cried the fisherman: " a few grapes more or less in your vineyard, what does it signify?
This was a proverb which Piedro had frequently heard from his father, and to which he most willingly trusted, because it gave him less trouble to fancy himself fortunate than to make himself wise.
Venture a small fish, as the proverb says, to catch a great one.
You are a droll chap," said his father, " and will sell my fish cleverly, I'll be bound.
As to the rest, let every man take care of his own grapes.
You understand me, Piedro?
He proceeded to the market, and he offered his fish with assiduity to every person whom he thought likely to buy it, especially to those upon whom he thought he could impose.
He positively asserted to all who looked at his fish, that they were just fresh out of the water.
Good judges of men and fish knew that he said what was false, and passed him by with neglect; but it was at last what he called GOOD LUCK to meet with the very same young raw servant-boy who would have bought the bruised melon from Francisco.
He made up to him directly, crying, " Fish!
Piedro received nearly half as much again for his fish as he ought to have done.
On his road homewards from Naples to the little village of Resina, where his father lived, he overtook Francisco, who was leading his father's ass.
The panniers were indeed not only filled to the top, but piled up with much skill and care, so that the load met over the animal's back.
This is your morning's work, I presume, and you'll make another journey to Naples to-day, on the same errand, I warrant, before your father thinks you have done enough?
Look here," producing the money he had received for the fish; " all this was had for asking.
It is no bad thing, you'll allow, to know how to ask for money properly.
You must know, I got off the fish to-day that my father could not sell yesterday in the market-got it off for fresh just out of the river-got twice as much as the market price for it; and from whom, think you?
Why, from the very booby that would have bought the bruised melon for a sound one if you would have let him.
You'll allow I'm no fool, Francisco, and that I'm in a fair way to grow rich, if I go on as I have begun.
He will buy no more fish from you, because he will be afraid of your cheating him; but he will be ready enough to buy fruit from me, because he will know I shall not cheat him-so you'll have lost a customer, and I gained one.
there are people enough to buy fish in Naples.
There are a great many of them, enough to last me all the summer, if I lose a customer a day," said Piedro.
Why, now, suppose the blockheads, after they had been taken in and found it out, all joined against me, and would buy none of our fish-what then?
Are there no trades but that of a fisherman?
In Naples, are there not a hundred ways of making money for a smart lad like me?
What do you think of turning merchant, and selling sugar-plums and cakes to the children in their market?
Would they be hard to deal with, think you?
Then IN TIME I could, you know, change my trade-sell chips and sticks in the wood-market-hand about the lemonade to the fine folks, or twenty other things.
There are trades enough, boy.
Change your trade ever so often, you'll be found out for what you are at last.
Ay, stroke the long ears of your ass, and look as wise as you please.
It's better to be lucky than wise, as MY father says.
When I am found out for what I am, or when the worst comes to the worst, I can drive a stupid ass, with his panniers filled with rubbish, as well as you do now, HONEST FRANCISCO.
Unless you were HONEST FRANCISCO, you would not fill his panniers quite so readily.
His industry was constant, his gains small but certain, and he every day had more and more reason to trust to his father's maxim-That honesty is the best policy.
The foreign servant lad, to whom Francisco had so honestly, or, as Piedro said, so sillily, shown the bruised side of the melon, was an Englishman.
He left his native country, of which he was extremely fond, to attend upon his master, to whom he was still more attached.
His master was in a declining state of health, and this young lad waited on him a little more to his mind than his other servants.
We must, in consideration of his zeal, fidelity and inexperience, pardon him for not being a good judge of fish.
Though he had simplicity enough to be easily cheated once, he had too much sense to be twice made a dupe.
The next time he met Piedro in the market, he happened to be in company with several English gentlemen's servants, and he pointed Piedro out to them all as an arrant knave.
They heard his cry of " Fresh fish!
with incredulous smiles, and let him pass, but not without some expressions of contempt, though uttered in English, he tolerably well understood; for the tone of contempt is sufficiently expressive in all languages.
He lost more by not selling his fish to these people than he had gained the day before by cheating the ENGLISH BOOBY.
The market was well supplied, and he could not get rid of his cargo.
said Piedro, as he passed by Francisco, who was selling fruit for his father.
How does he know that you deserve it better?
I am sure he need not have been afraid.
Name your price; I know you have but one, and that an honest one; and as to the rest, I am able and willing to pay for what I buy; that is to say, my master is, which comes to the same thing.
I wish your fruit could make him well, and it would be worth its weight in gold to me, at least.
We must have some of your grapes for him.
I'll come to your village.
Only write me down the name; for your Italian names slip through my head.
I'll come to the vineyard if it was ten miles off; and all the time we stay in Naples (may it not be so long as I fear it will!
I wish all your countrymen would take after you in honesty, indeed I do," concluded the Englishman, looking full at Piedro, who took up his unsold basket of fish, looking somewhat silly, and gloomily walked off.
Arthur, the English servant, was as good as his word.
He dealt constantly with Francisco, and proved an excellent customer, buying from him during the whole season as much fruit as his master wanted.
His master, who was an Englishman of distinction, was invited to take up his residence, during his stay in Italy, at the Count de F.' s villa, which was in the environs of Naples-an easy walk from Resina.
It is fair you should have a share of our profits.
Here; this vine, this fig-tree, and a melon a week next summer shall be yours.
With these make a fine figure amongst the little Neapolitan merchants; and all I wish is that you may prosper as well, and by the same honest means, in managing for yourself, as you have done managing for me.
Piedro the cunning did not make quite so successful a summer's work as did Francisco the honest.
No extraordinary events happened, no singular instance of bad or good luck occurred; but he felt, as persons usually do, the natural consequences of his own actions.
He pursued his scheme of imposing, as far as he could, upon every person he dealt with; and the consequence was, that at last nobody would deal with him.
Piedro's father, amongst others, had reason to complain.
He saw his own customers fall off from him, and was told, whenever he went into the market, that his son was such a cheat there was no dealing with him.
One day, when he was returning from the market in a very bad humour, in consequence of these reproaches, and of his not having found customers for his goods, he espied his SMART son Piedro at a little merchant's fruit-board devouring a fine gourd with prodigious greediness.
exclaimed his father, coming close up to him, with angry gestures.
Piedro's mouth was much too full to make an immediate reply, nor did his father wait for any, but darting his hand into the youth's pocket, pulled forth a handful of silver.
Am I to lose my customers by your tricks, and then find you here eating my all?
You are a rogue, and everybody has found you out to be a rogue; and the worst of rogues I find you, who scruples not to cheat his own father.
Saying these words, with great vehemence he seized hold of Piedro, and in the very midst of the little fruit-market gave him a severe beating.
This beating did the boy no good; it was vengeance not punishment.
Piedro saw that his father was in a passion, and knew that he was beaten because he was found out to be a rogue, rather than for being one.
He recollected perfectly that his father once said to him: " Let everyone take care of his own grapes.
Piedro writhed with bodily pain as he left the market after his drubbing, but his mind was not in the least amended.
On the contrary, he was hardened to the sense of shame by the loss of reputation.
All the little merchants were spectators of this scene, and heard his father's words: " You ARE a rogue, and the worst of rogues, who scruples not to cheat his own father.
These words were long remembered, and long did Piedro feel their effects.
He once flattered himself that, when his trade of selling fish failed him, he could readily engage in some other; but he now found, to his mortification, that what Francisco's father said proved true: " In all trades the best fortune to set up with is a good character.
Not one of the little Neapolitan merchants would either enter into partnership with him, give him credit, or even trade with him for ready money.
Piedro was taunted and treated with contempt at home and abroad.
His father, when he found that his son's smartness was no longer useful in making bargains, shoved him out of his way whenever he met him.
All the food or clothes that he had at home seemed to be given to him grudgingly, and with such expressions as these: " Take that; but it is too good for you.
You must eat this, now, instead of gourds and figs-and be thankful you have even this.
Piedro spent a whole winter very unhappily.
He expected that all his old tricks, and especially what his father had said of him in the market-place, would be soon forgotten; but month passed after month, and still these things were fresh in the memory of all who had known them.
It is not easy to get rid of a bad character.
A very great rogue * was once heard to say, that he would, with all his heart, give ten thousand pounds for a good character, because he knew that he could make twenty thousand by it.
Something like this was the sentiment of our cunning hero when he experienced the evils of a bad reputation, and when he saw the numerous advantages which Francisco's good character procured.
Such had been Piedro's wretched education, that even the hard lessons of experience could not alter its pernicious effects.
He was sorry his knavery had been detected, but he still thought it clever to cheat, and was secretly persuaded that, if he had cheated successfully, he should have been happy.
His fishing-rod, which he held between his knees, bent over the dry sands instead of into the water, for he was not thinking of what he was about; his arms were folded, his head hung down, and his ragged hat was slouched over his face.
He was a melancholy spectacle.
Francisco, as he was coming from his father's vineyard with a large dish of purple and white grapes upon his head, and a basket of melons and figs hanging upon his arm, chanced to see Piedro seated in this melancholy posture.
I am not the favourite I was with my father, but I know it is all my own fault.
Yes, take as many figs as you will," continued he; and held his basket closer to Piedro, who, as he saw, cast a hungry eye upon one of the ripe figs.
Won't your father be apt to miss them?
said Francisco, with a sudden glance of indignation.
You seem, indeed, to have been very unhappy of late.
We never see you in the markets as we used to do.
If you would but take me along with you amongst them, and only just SEEM my friend, for a day or two, or so, it would quite set me up again; for they all like you.
You would find me no bad hand, if you were to try, and take me into partnership.
interrupted Francisco, drawing back alarmed; " I had no thoughts of that.
said Piedro, in a supplicating tone; " CAN'T you have thoughts of it?
You'd find me a very active partner.
Franscisco still drew back, and kept his eyes fixed upon the ground.
He was embarrassed; for he pitied Piedro, and he scarcely knew how to point out to him that something more is necessary in a partner in trade besides activity, and that is honesty.
repeated Piedro, thinking that he hesitated from merely mercenary motives.
I'll go on before you, and speak to those I am acquainted with, and tell them you are going to set up a new character, and that you hope to make it a good one.
Thank you for ever, dear Francisco," cried Piedro, seizing his plentiful gift of fruit.
If I could get them to trust me as they do you, I should be happy indeed.
Chi va piano va sano, e anche lontano.
Fair and softly goes far in a day.
Piedro had now an opportunity of establishing a good character.
When he went into the market with his grapes and figs, he found that he was not shunned or taunted as usual.
All seemed disposed to believe in his intended reformation, and to give him a fair trial.
These favourable dispositions towards him were the consequence of Francisco's benevolent representations.
Piedro made a good beginning, and gave what several of the younger customers thought excellent bargains.
His grapes and figs were quickly sold, and with the money that he got for them he the next day purchased from a fruit dealer a fresh supply; and thus he went on for some time, conducting himself with scrupulous honesty, so that he acquired some credit among his companions.
They no longer watched him with suspicious eyes.
They trusted to his measures and weights, and they counted less carefully the change which they received from him.
The satisfaction he felt from this alteration in their manners was at first delightful to Piedro; but in proportion to his credit, his opportunities of defrauding increased; and these became temptations which he had not the firmness to resist.
His old manner of thinking recurred.
Light gains, and frequent, make a heavy purse, * was one of Francisco's proverbs.
But Piedro was in too great haste to get rich to take time into his account.
He set his invention to work, and he did not want for ingenuity, to devise means of cheating without running the risk of detection.
He observed that the younger part of the community were extremely fond of certain coloured sugar plums, and of burnt almonds.
This advertisement attracted the attention of all who could read; and many who could not read heard it repeated with delight.
Crowds of children surrounded Piedro's board of promise, and they all went away the first day amply satisfied.
Each had a full measure of coloured sugar-plums at the usual price, and along with these a burnt almond gratis.
It was generally reported that Piedro gave full measure-fuller than any other board in the city.
He measured the sugar-plums in a little cubical tin box; and this, it was affirmed, he heaped up to the top, and pressed down before he poured out the contents into the open hands of his approving customers.
This belief, and Piedro's popularity, continued longer even than he had expected; and, as he thought his sugar-plums had secured their reputation with the GENEROUS PUBLIC, he gradually neglected to add burnt almonds gratis.
One day a boy of about ten years old passed carelessly by, whistling as he went along, and swinging a carpenter's rule in his hand.
cried he, stopping to read what was written on Piedro's board.
Old as I am, and tall of my age, which makes the matter worse, I am still as fond of sugar-plums as my little sister, who is five years younger than I.
Come, Signor, fill me quick, for I'm in haste to taste them, two measures of the sweetest, largest, most admirable sugar-plums in Naples-one measure for myself and one for my little Rosetta.
Here's for myself, and here's for my sister's share," said he, laying down his money; " and now for the burnt almonds gratis, my good fellow.
not when you have, by your own account, been out of them a great while?
I did not know it required so much time to blot out a few words-let us try.
Do as you please with your board, but give me my sugar-plums, for I have some right to meddle with those, having paid for them.
your measure does not fill my box nearly; you give us very few sugar-plums for our money.
Piedro changed colour terribly, and seizing hold of the tin box, endeavoured to wrest it from the youth who measured so accurately.
Carlo held his prize fast, and lifting it above his head, he ran into the midst of the square where the little market was held, exclaiming, " A discovery!
that concerns all who love sugar-plums.
a discovery that concerns all who have ever bought the sweetest, and most admirable sugar-plums ever sold in Naples.
The crowd gathered from all parts of the square as he spoke.
Look you here; look at this box-this is his measure; it has a false bottom-it holds only three-quarters as much as it ought to do; and his numerous customers have all been cheated of one-quarter of every measure of the admirable sugar-plums they have bought from him.
said Carlo, going up to this silent person.
You don't sell sugar-plums as he does, I'm sure; for my little sister Rosetta has often bought from you.
Can this Piedro be a friend of yours?
I have reason to be obliged to you, for I was nearly taken in.
He has behaved so well for some time past, that I intended this very evening to have gone to him, and to have told him that I was willing to do for him what he has long begged of me to do-to enter into partnership with him.
Francisco- your measure, lend us your measure!
exclaimed a number of little merchants crowding round him.
Bankers and merchants used formerly to count their money, and write their bills of exchange upon benches in the streets; and when a merchant or banker lost his credit, and was unable to pay his debts, his bench was broken.
They pressed on to Francisco's board, obtained his measure, found that it held something more than a quarter above the quantity that could be contained in Piedro's.
The cries of the enraged populace were now most clamorous.
They hung the just and the unjust measures upon high poles; and, forming themselves into a formidable phalanx, they proceeded towards Piedro's well known yellow lettered board, exclaiming, as they went along, " Common cause!
The little Neapolitan merchants will have no knaves amongst them!
He is a bankrupt in honesty.
Piedro saw the mob, heard the indignant clamour, and, terrified at the approach of numbers, he fled with the utmost precipitation, having scarcely time to pack up half his sugar-plums.
There was a prodigious number, more than would have filled many honest measures, scattered upon the ground and trampled under foot by the crowd.
Piedro's bench was broken, and the public vengeance wreaked itself also upon his treacherous painted board.
It was, after being much disfigured by various inscriptions expressive of the universal contempt for Piedro, hung up in a conspicuous part of the market-place; and the false measure was fastened like a cap upon one of its corners.
Piedro could never more show his face in this market, and all hopes of friendship-all hopes of partnership with Francisco-were for ever at an end.
Is it not clear that our crafty hero would have gained rather more by a partnership with Francisco, and by a fair character, than he could possibly obtain by fraudulent dealing in comfits?
When the mob had dispersed, after satisfying themselves with executing summary justice upon Piedro's bench and board, Francisco found a carpenter's rule lying upon the ground near Piedro's broken bench, which he recollected to have seen in the hands of Carlo.
He examined it carefully, and he found Carlo's name written upon it, and the name of the street where he lived; and though it was considerably out of his way, he set out immediately to restore the rule, which was a very handsome one, to its rightful owner.
After a hot walk through several streets, he overtook Carlo, who had just reached the door of his own house.
Carlo was particularly obliged to him, he said, for restoring this rule to him, as it was a present from the master of a vessel, who employed his father to do carpenter's work for him.
It was given to me for having measured the work and made up the bill of a whole pleasure-boat myself.
You may guess I should have been sorry enough to have lost it.
Thank you for its being once more in my careless hands, and tell me, I beg, whenever I can do you any service.
By-the-by, I can make up for you a fruit stall.
I'll do it to-morrow, and it shall be the admiration of the market.
Is there anything else you could think of for me?
I have a great curiosity to know their use.
repeated Francisco, not a little alarmed at the high sounding word; " that's what I certainly shall never understand.
interrupted Francisco, whilst Carlo laughed, with a benevolent sense of superiority.
But I cannot explain my rule to you here broiling in the sun.
Besides, it will not be the work of a day, I promise you; but come and see us at your leisure hours, and we'll study it together.
I have a great notion we shall become friends; and, to begin, step in with me now," said Carlo, " and eat a little macaroni with us.
I know it is ready by this time.
Besides, you'll see my father, and he'll show you plenty of rules and compasses, as you like such things; and then I'll go home with you in the cool of the evening, and you shall show me your melons and vines, and teach me, in time, something of gardening.
Oh, I see we must be good friends, just made for each other; so come in-no ceremony.
Carlo was not mistaken in his predictions; he and Francisco became very good friends, spent all their leisure hours together, either in Carlo's workshop or in Francisco's vineyard, and they mutually improved each other.
said Francisco, as he was sitting one morning with his tutor, the carpenter.
In short, my maxim is, that no knowledge comes amiss; for a man's head is of as much use to him as his hands; and even more so.
Safe companions these for young and old.
No one gets into mischief that has pleasant things to think of and to do when alone; and I know, for my part, that trigonometry is --
said her brother Carlo, and he went up to her, and wiped them from her cheeks.
I must stop these tears, too," said Carlo.
Rosetta, at this speech, burst out laughing, and said that she did not know till then that she had any bridge on her nose.
said her brother, looking at a heap of shells, which she held before her in her frock.
That was the reason I was in such a hurry to get them.
But now what shall I do, Carlo?
I shall have no money to give him: I must give back his shells, and that's a great pity.
When I went for my basket, do you know it was empty, quite empty, not a chip left?
Some dishonest person had carried it all off.
Had not I reason to cry now, Carlo?'
Won't that be better than crying?
Despairing of discovering the thief, Francisco and Carlo left the market.
As they were returning home, they were met by the English servant Arthur, who asked Francisco where he had been, and where he was going.
this was at the baker's, I think, where I went for some rolls for my master.
It was lying beside his oven.
To the baker's they all went as fast as possible, and they got there but just in time.
The baker had in his hand the bit of wood with which he was that instant going to feed his oven.
cried Rosetta, who ran into the baker's shop first; and as he heard " Stop!
re-echoed by many voices, the baker stopped; and turning to Francisco, Carlo and Arthur, begged, with a countenance of some surprise, to know why they had desired him to stop.
The case was easily explained, and the baker told them that he did not buy any wood in the little market that morning; that this faggot he had purchased between the hours of twelve and one from a lad about Francisco's height, whom he met near the yard of the arsenal.
He desired to be paid in bread, and my bread was not quite baked when he was here.
I bid him call again in an hour, and I fancy he will be pretty punctual, for he looked desperately hungry.
The baker had scarcely finished speaking when Francisco, who was standing watching at the door, exclaimed, " Here comes Piedro!
I hope he is not the boy who sold you the wood, Mr.
Arthur went on to say something in bad Italian about the excellence of an English trial by jury, which Carlo was too much enraged to hear, but to which Francisco paid attention, and turning to Piedro, he asked him if he was willing to be judged by twelve of his equals?
On their way, they had passed through the fruit-market, and crowds of those who were well acquainted with Piedro's former transactions followed, to hear the event of the present trial.
Arthur could not, especially as he spoke wretched Italian, make the eager little merchants understand the nature and advantages of an English trial by jury.
They preferred their own summary mode of proceeding.
Francisco, in whose integrity they all had perfect confidence, was chosen with unanimous shouts for the judge; but he declined the office, and another was appointed.
He was raised upon a bench, and the guilty but insolent looking Piedro, and the ingenuous, modest Rosetta stood before him.
She made her complaint in a very artless manner; and Piedro, with ingenuity, which in a better cause would have deserved admiration, spoke volubly and craftily in his own defence.
But all that he could say could not alter facts.
The judge compared the notched bit of wood found at the baker's with a piece from which it was cut, which he went to see in the yard of the arsenal.
It was found to fit exactly.
The judge then found it impossible to restrain the loud indignation of all the spectators.
The prisoner was sentenced never more to sell wood in the market; and the moment sentence was pronounced, Piedro was hissed and hooted out of the market-place.
Thus a third time he deprived himself of the means of earning his bread.
We shall not dwell upon all his petty methods of cheating in the trades he next attempted.
He handed lemonade about in a part of Naples where he was not known, but he lost his customers by putting too much water and too little lemon into this beverage.
He then took to the waters from the sulphurous springs, and served them about to foreigners; but one day, as he was trying to jostle a competitor from the coach door, he slipped his foot, and broke his glasses.
They had been borrowed from an old woman, who hired out glasses to the boys who sold lemonade.
Piedro knew that it was the custom to pay, of course, for all that was broken; but this he was not inclined to do.
He had a few shillings in his pocket, and thought that it would be very clever to defraud this poor woman of her right, and to spend his shillings upon what he valued much more than he did his good name-macaroni.
The shillings were soon gone.
We shall now for the present leave Piedro to his follies and his fate; or, to speak more properly, to his follies and their inevitable consequences.
Francisco was all this time acquiring knowledge from his new friends, without neglecting his own or his father's business.
He contrived, during the course of autumn and winter, to make himself a tolerable arithmetician.
Carlo's father could draw plans in architecture neatly; and pleased with the eagerness Francisco showed to receive instruction, he willingly put a pencil and compasses into his hand, and taught him all he knew himself.
Francisco had great perseverance, and, by repeated trials, he at length succeeded in copying exactly all the plans which his master lent him.
His copies, in time, surpassed the originals, and Carlo exclaimed, with astonishment: " Why, Francisco, what an astonishing GENIUS you have for drawing- Absolutely you draw plans better than my father!
All that I have done has been done by hard labour.
I don't know how other people do things; but I am sure that I never have been able to get anything done well but by patience.
Don't you remember, Carlo, how you and even Rosetta laughed at me the first time your father put a pencil into my awkward, clumsy hands?
And the times are changed since I set about to explain this rule of mine to you.
Some great people, when they lose any of their fine things, cause the crier to promise a reward of so much money to anyone who shall find and restore their trinket.
How richly have you and your father rewarded me for returning this rule!
Francisco's modesty and gratitude, as they were perfectly sincere, attached his friends to him most powerfully; but there was one person who regretted our hero's frequent absences from his vineyard at Resina.
Not Francisco's father, for he was well satisfied his son never neglected his business; and as to the hours spent in Naples, he had so much confidence in Francisco that he felt no apprehensions of his getting into bad company.
When his son had once said to him, " I spend my time at such a place, and in such and such a manner," he was as well convinced of its being so as if he had watched and seen him every moment of the day.
But it was Arthur who complained of Francisco's absence.
It was the utmost stretch of Arthur's complaisance to pay this visit; but, in spite of his national prejudices and habitual reserve of temper, he was pleased with the reception he met with from the generous Carlo and the playful Rosetta.
They showed him Francisco's drawings with enthusiastic eagerness; and Arthur, though no great judge of drawing, was in astonishment, and frequently repeated, " I know a gentleman who visits my master who would like these things.
I wish I might have them to show him.
Though not quite so partial a judge as the enthusiastic Carlo, this gentleman was both pleased and surprised at the sight of these drawings, considering how short a time Francisco had applied himself to this art, and what slight instructions he had received.
Arthur was desired to summon the young artist.
Francisco's honest, open manner, joined to the proofs he had given of his abilities, and the character Arthur gave him for strict honesty, and constant kindness to his parents, interested Mr. Lee, the name of this English gentleman, much in his favour.
Mr. Lee was at this time in treaty with an Italian painter, whom he wished to engage to copy for him exactly some of the cornices, mouldings, tablets, and antique ornaments which are to be seen amongst the ruins of the ancient city of Herculaneum.
A rumbling, and afterwards a roaring noise is heard within, and prodigious quantities of stones and minerals burnt into masses (scoriae), are thrown out of the crater, sometimes to a great distance.
The hot ashes from Mount Vesuvius have often been seen upon the roofs of the houses of Naples, from which it is six miles distant.
Streams of lava run down the sides of the mountains during the time of an eruption, destroying everything in their way, and overwhelm the houses and vineyards which are in the neighbourhood.
It remained for many years buried.
The lava which covered it became in time fit for vegetation, plants grew there, a new soil was formed, and a new town called Portici was built over this place where Herculaneum formerly stood.
The little village of Resina is also situated near the spot.
About fifty years ago, in a poor man's garden at Resina, a hole in a well about thirty feet below the surface of the earth was observed.
Some persons had the curiosity to enter into this hole, and, after creeping underground for some time, they came to the foundations of houses.
The peasants, inhabitants of the village, who had probably never heard of Herculaneum, were somewhat surprised at their discovery.
They found, at length, the entrance into the town, which, during the reign of Titus, was buried under lava.
It was about eighty-eight Neapolitan palms (a palm contains near nine inches) below the top of the pit.
The workmen, as they cleared the passages, marked their way with chalk when they came to any turning, lest they should lose themselves.
The streets branched out in many directions, and, lying across them, the workmen often found large pieces of timber, beams, and rafters; some broken in the fall, others entire.
These beams and rafters are burned quite black like charcoal, except those that were found in moist places, which have more the colour of rotten wood, and which are like a soft paste, into which you might run your hand.
The walls of the houses slant, some one way, some another, and some are upright.
Several magnificent buildings of brick, faced with marble of different colours, are partly seen, where the workmen have cleared away the earth and lava with which they were encrusted.
Columns of red and white marble, and flights of steps, are seen in different places; and out of the ruins of the palaces some very fine statues and pictures have been dug.
Foreigners who visit Naples are very curious to see this subterraneous city, and are desirous to carry with them into their own country some proofs of their having examined this wonderful place.
Tutte le gran faciende si fanno di poca cosa.
What great events from trivial causes spring.
Signor Camillo, the artist employed by Mr. Lee to copy some of the antique ornaments in Herculaneum, was a liberal minded man, perfectly free from that mean jealousy which would repress the efforts of rising genius.
What an advantage your instruction would be to him," said Mr. Lee, as he introduced Francisco to Signor Camillo.
I hear he is strictly honest, and one of the best of sons.
Let us do something for him.
If you will give him some knowledge of your art, I will, as far as money can recompense you for your loss of time, pay whatever you may think reasonable for his instruction.
Signor Camillo made no difficulties; he was pleased with his pupil's appearance, and every day he liked him better and better.
Signor Camillo, the first day he came into this room with his pupil, said to him, " Here are many valuable books and drawings, young man.
I trust, from the character I have heard of you, that they will be perfectly safe here.
Some weeks after Francisco had been with the painter, they had occasion to look for the front of a temple in one of these large books.
don't you know in which book to look for it, Francisco?
cried his master, with some impatience.
Had you half the taste I gave you credit for, you would have singled it out from all the rest, and have it fixed in your memory.
Is a taste for the arts to be learned, think you, by looking at the cover of a book like this?
Is it possible that you never thought of opening it?
I hoped indeed, that the time would come when you would have the goodness to show them to me.
I am now sure of your having the one, and let me see whether you have, as I believe you have, the other.
Sit you down here beside me; and we will look over these books together.
His confidence in Francisco was much increased by this circumstance, slight as it may appear.
One day, Signor Camillo came behind Francisco, as he was drawing with much intentness, and tapping him upon the shoulder, he said to him: " Put up your pencils and follow me, I can depend upon your integrity; I have pledged myself for it.
Bring your note-book with you, and follow me; I will this day show you something that will entertain you at least as much as my large book of prints.
Francisco followed, till they came to the pit near the entrance of Herculaneum.
Paintings of great value, besides ornaments of gold and silver, antique bracelets, rings, etc., are from time to time found amongst these ruins, and therefore it is necessary that no person should be admitted whose honesty cannot be depended upon.
Thus, even Francisco's talents could not have advanced him in the world, unless they had been united to integrity.
He was much delighted and astonished by the new scene that was now opened to his view; and as, day after day, he accompanied his master to this subterraneous city, he had leisure for observation.
He was employed, as soon as he had gratified his curiosity, in drawing.
There are niches in the walls in several places, from which pictures have been dug, and these niches are often adorned with elegant masques, figures and animals, which have been left by the ignorant or careless workmen, and which are going fast to destruction.
Signor Camillo, who was copying these for his English employer, had a mind to try his pupil's skill, and, pointing to a niche bordered with grotesque figures, he desired him to try if he could make any hand of it.
Francisco had no sooner received this money, than he hurried to his father and mother's cottage.
His mother, some months before this time, had taken a small dairy farm; and her son had once heard her express a wish that she was but rich enough to purchase a remarkably fine brindled cow, which belonged to a farmer in the neighbourhood.
The happy mother thanked her son, and the father assured him that neither melon nor pine-apple should be spared, to make a supper worthy of his friends.
The brindled cow was bought, and Arthur and Carlo and Rosetta most joyfully accepted their invitation.
The carpenter had unluckily appointed to settle a long account that day with one of his employers, and he could not accompany his children.
It was a delicious evening; they left Naples just as the sea-breeze, after the heats of the day, was most refreshingly felt.
The walk to Resina, the vineyard, the dairy, and most of all, the brindled cow, were praised by Carlo and Rosetta, with all the Italian superlatives which signify, " Most beautiful!
The company, who were all pleased with each other, and with the gardener's good fruit, which he produced in great abundance, did not think of separating till late.
It was a bright moonlight night, and Carlo asked his friend if he would walk with them part of the way to Naples.
They proceeded gaily along, and when they reached Naples, as they passed through the square where the little merchants held their market, Francisco pointed to the spot where he found Carlo's rule.
He never missed an opportunity of showing his friends that he did not forget their former kindness to him.
She pointed to a group of men, women and children, who were assembled under a piazza, listening in various attitudes of attention to a man, who was standing upon a flight of steps speaking in a loud voice, and with much action, to the people who surrounded him.
Francisco, Carlo and Rosetta joined his audience.
The moon shone full upon his countenance, which was very expressive and which varied frequently according to the characters of the persons whose history he was telling, according to all the changes of their fortune.
This man was one of those who are called Improvisatori-persons who, in Italian towns, go about reciting verses or telling stories, which they are supposed to invent as they go on speaking.
Some of these people speak with great fluency, and collect crowds round them in the public streets.
When an Improvisatore sees the attention of his audience fixed, and when he comes to some very interesting part of his narrative, he dexterously drops his hat upon the ground, and pauses till his auditors have paid tribute to his eloquence.
When he thinks the hat sufficiently full, he takes it up again, and proceeds with his story.
The hat was dropped just as Francisco and his two friends came under the piazza.
The orator had finished one story, and was going to commence another.
He fixed his eyes upon Francisco, then glanced at Carlo and Rosetta, and after a moment's consideration he began a story which bore some resemblance to one that our young English readers may, perhaps, know by the name of " Cornaro, or the Grateful Turk.
Francisco was deeply interested in this narrative, and when the hat was dropped, he eagerly threw in his contribution.
At the end of the story, when the speaker's voice stopped, there was a momentary silence, which was broken by the orator himself, who exclaimed, as he took up the hat which lay at his feet, " My friends, here is some mistake!
this is not my hat; it has been changed whilst I was taken up with my story.
Pray, gentlemen, find my hat amongst you; it was a remarkably good one, a present from a nobleman for an epigram I made.
I would not lose my hat for twice its value.
It has my name written withinside of it, Dominicho, Improvisatore.
Pray, gentlemen, examine your hats.
Everybody present examined their hats, and showed them to Dominicho, but his was not amongst them.
No one had left the company; the piazza was cleared, and searched in vain.
The face was so much in the shade, that Carlo did not at first perceive that the statue was Piedro.
Piedro, when he saw himself discovered, burst into a loud laugh, and throwing down Dominicho's hat, which he held in his hand behind him, cried, " A pretty set of novices!
Most excellent players at hide-and-seek you would make.
Whether Piedro really meant to have carried off the poor man's hat, or whether he was, as he said, merely in jest, we leave it to those who know his general character to decide.
Francisco, a word with you, if you have done crying at the pitiful story you have been listening to so attentively.
said Francisco, following him a few steps.
Francisco did not consider that those who have habits of pilfering continue to practise them often, when the poverty which first tempted them to dishonesty ceases.
You stare when I tell you I am rich; but the thing is so.
Moreover, I am well with my father at home.
I have friends in Naples, and I call myself Piedro the Lucky.
Look you here," said he, producing an old gold coin.
My father is no longer a fisherman, nor I either.
Neither do I sell sugar-plums to children: nor do I slave myself in a vineyard, like some folks; but fortune, when I least expected it, has stood my friend.
I have many pieces of gold like this.
Digging in my father's garden, it was my luck to come to an old Roman vessel full of gold.
I have this day agreed for a house in Naples for my father.
We shall live, whilst we can afford it, like great folks, you will see; and I shall enjoy the envy that will be felt by some of my old friends, the little Neapolitan merchants, who will change their note when they see my change of fortune.
What say you to all this, Francisco the Honest?
Everyone who has it enjoys it WELL.
He always dances well to whom fortune pipes.
Do you know he has found a treasure, he says, in his father's garden-a vase full of gold?
He showed me one of the gold pieces.
I hope he came honestly by them," said Carlo; " but ever since the affair of the double measure, I suspect double-dealing always from him.
It is not our affair, however.
Let him make himself happy his way, and we ours.
All Piedro's neighbours did not follow this peaceable maxim; for when he and his father began to circulate the story of the treasure found in the garden, the village of Resina did not give them implicit faith.
People nodded and whispered, and shrugged their shoulders; then crossed themselves, and declared that they would not, for all the riches of Naples, change places with either Piedro or his father.
Regardless, or pretending to be regardless, of these suspicions, Piedro and his father persisted in their assertions.
The fishing-nets were sold, and everything in their cottage was disposed of; they left Resina, went to live at Naples, and, after a few weeks, the matter began to be almost forgotten in the village.
Not to leave our readers longer in suspense, we must inform them that the peasants of Resina were right in their suspicions.
Piedro had never found any treasure in his father's garden, but he came by his gold in the following manner:--
He found the truth of the proverb, " that credit lost is like a Venice glass broken-it can't be mended again.
The few shillings which he had in his pocket supplied him with food for a few days.
At last he was glad to be employed by one of the peasants who came to Naples to load their asses with manure out of the streets.
The carriage was overturned near him; a lady was taken out of it, and was hurried by her attendants into a shop, where she stayed till her carriage was set to rights.
She was too much alarmed for the first ten minutes after her accident to think of anything; but after some time, she perceived that she had lost a valuable diamond cross, which she had worn that night at the opera.
She was uncertain where she had dropped it; the shop, the carriage, the street, were searched for it in vain.
Piedro saw it fall as the lady was lifted out of the carriage, seized upon it, and carried it off.
Ignorant as he was of the full value of what he had stolen, he knew not how to satisfy himself as to this point, without trusting someone with the secret.
After some hesitation, he determined to apply to a Jew, who, as it was whispered, was ready to buy everything that was offered to him for sale, without making any TROUBLESOME inquiries.
It was late; he waited till the streets were cleared, and then knocked softly at the back door of the Jew's house.
The person who opened the door for Piedro was his own father.
Piedro started back; but his father had fast hold of him.
said the father, in a low voice, a voice which expressed fear and rage mixed.
Tell me what brings you here at this time of the night?
Piedro, who felt himself in his father's grasp, and who knew that his father would certainly search him, to find out what he had brought to sell, thought it most prudent to produce the diamond cross.
His father could but just see its lustre by the light of a dim lamp, which hung over their heads in the gloomy passage in which they stood.
It is well it has fallen into my hands.
Piedro answered that he had found it in the street.
Concern yourself no more about it.
Piedro was not inclined thus to relinquish his booty, and he now thought proper to vary in his account of the manner in which he found the cross.
Piedro's father saw that his SMART son, though scarcely sixteen years of age, was a match for him in villainy.
He promised him that he should have half of whatever the Jew would give for the diamonds, and Piedro insisted upon being present at the transaction.
We do not wish to lay open to our young readers scenes of iniquity.
It is sufficient to say that the Jew, who was a man old in all the arts of villainy, contrived to cheat both his associates, and obtained the diamond cross for less than half its value.
The matter was managed so that the transaction remained undiscovered.
The lady who lost the cross, after making fruitless inquiries, gave up the search, and Piedro and his father rejoiced in the success of their manoeuvres.
It is said, that " Ill gotten wealth is quickly spent "; * and so it proved in this instance.
Both father and son lived a riotous life as long as their money lasted, and it did not last many months.
What his bad education began, bad company finished, and Piedro's mind was completely ruined by the associates with whom he became connected during what he called his PROSPERITY.
When his money was at an end, these unprincipled friends began to look cold upon him, and at last plainly told him --" If you mean to LIVE WITH US, you must LIVE AS WE DO.
Piedro, though familiarized to the idea of fraud, was shocked at the thought of becoming a robber by profession.
How difficult it is to stop in the career of vice!
Whether Piedro had power to stop, or whether he was hurried on by his associates, we shall, for the present, leave in doubt.
We turn with pleasure from Piedro the Cunning to Francisco the Honest.
Francisco continued the happy and useful course of his life.
By his unremitting perseverance, he improved himself rapidly under the instructions of his master and friend, Signor Camillo; his friend, we say, for the fair and open character of Francisco won, or rather earned, the friendship of this benevolent artist.
The English gentleman seemed to take a pride in our hero's success and good conduct.
He was not one of those patrons who think that they have done enough when they have given five guineas.
His servant Arthur always considered every generous action of his master's as his own, and was particularly pleased whenever this generosity was directed towards Francisco.
As for Carlo and the little Rosetta, they were the companions of all the pleasant walks which Francisco used to take in the cool of the evening, after he had been shut up all day at his work.
And the old carpenter, delighted with the gratitude of his pupil, frequently repeated --" that he was proud to have given the first instructions to such a GENIUS; and that he had always prophesied Francisco would be a GREAT man.
Facts are masculine, and words are feminine.
These goods friends seemed to make Francisco happier than Piedro could be made by his stolen diamonds.
One morning, Francisco was sent to finish a sketch of the front of an ancient temple, amongst the ruins of Herculaneum.
He had just reached the pit, and the men were about to let him down with cords, in the usual manner, when his attention was caught by the shrill sound of a scolding woman's voice.
He looked, and saw at some paces distant this female fury, who stood guarding the windlass of a well, to which, with threatening gestures and most voluble menaces, she forbade all access.
The peasants-men, women and children, who had come with their pitchers to draw water at this well-were held at bay by the enraged female.
Not one dared to be the first to advance; whilst she grasped with one hand the handle of the windlass, and, with the other tanned muscular arm extended, governed the populace, bidding them remember that she was padrona, or mistress of the well.
There is scarcely enough even for ourselves.
I have been obliged to make my husband lengthen the ropes every day for this week past.
If things go on at this rate, there will soon be not one drop of water left in my well.
Francisco was struck by these remarks.
They brought to his recollection similar facts, which he had often heard his father mention in his childhood, as having been observed previous to the last eruption of Mount Vesuvius.
Francisco's father and mother, more prudent than the generality of their neighbours, went to the house of a relation, at some miles'distance from Vesuvius, and carried with them all their effects.
In the meantime, Francisco went to the villa where his English friends resided.
The villa was in a most dangerous situation, near Terre del Greco-a town that stands at the foot of Mount Vesuvius.
He ran to his master's apartment, and communicated all that he had just heard.
The Count de Flora and his lady, who were at this time in the house, ridiculed the fears of Arthur, and could not be prevailed upon to remove even as far as Naples.
The lady was intent upon preparations for her birthday, which was to be celebrated in a few days with great magnificence at their villa; and she observed that it would be a pity to return to town before that day, and they had everything arranged for the festival.
The prudent Englishman had not the gallantry to appear to be convinced by these arguments, and he left the place of danger.
He left it not too soon, for the next morning exhibited a scene-a scene which we shall not attempt to describe.
We refer our young readers to the account of this dreadful eruption of Mount Vesuvius, published by Sir W. Hamilton in the " Philosophical Transactions.
It is sufficient here to say that, in the space of about five hours, the wretched inhabitants of Torre del Greco saw their town utterly destroyed by the streams of burning lava which poured from the mountain.
The villa of Count de Flora, with some others, which were at a little distance from the town, escaped; but they were absolutely surrounded by the lava.
The count and countess were obliged to fly from their house with the utmost precipitation in the night-time; and they had not time to remove any of their furniture, their plate, clothes, or jewels.
A few days after the eruption, the surface of the lava became so cool that people could walk upon it, though several feet beneath the surface it was still exceedingly hot.
Numbers of those who had been forced from their houses now returned to the ruins to try to save whatever they could.
But these unfortunate persons frequently found their houses had been pillaged by robbers, who, in these moments of general confusion, enrich themselves with the spoils of their fellow-creatures.
and is there no one to take care of his plate and furniture?
The house will certainly be ransacked before morning," said the old carpenter to Francisco, who was at his house giving him an account of their flight.
Francisco immediately went to the count's house in warn him of his danger.
The first person he saw was Arthur, who, with a face of terror, said to him, " Do you know what has happened?
It is all over with Resina!
What, has there been a fresh eruption?
Has the lava reached Resina?
There," said Arthur, pointing to a thin figure of an Italian, who stood pale and trembling, and looking up to heaven as he crossed himself repeatedly.
One spark of fire, and the whole is blown up.
What was the surprise and joy of the poor firework-maker when he saw Francisco return from this dangerous expedition!
He could scarcely believe his eyes, when he saw the rockets and the gunpowder all safe.
The count, who had given up the hopes of saving his palace, was in admiration when he heard of this instance of intrepidity, which properly saved not only his villa, but the whole village of Resina, from destruction.
These fireworks had been prepared for the celebration of the countess'birthday, and were forgotten in the hurry of the night on which the inhabitants fled from Torre del Greco.
said the count to Francisco, " I thank you, and shall not limit my gratitude to thanks.
You tell me that there is danger of my villa being pillaged by robbers.
It is from this moment your interest, as well as mine, to prevent their depredations; for (trust to my liberality) a portion of all that is saved of mine shall be yours.
exclaimed one, who started from a recessed window in the hall where all this passed.
Francisco thought he knew the voice and the countenance of this man, who exclaimed with so much enthusiasm.
He remembered to have seen him before, but when, or where, he could not recollect.
As soon as the count left the hall, the stranger came up to Francisco.
It is scarcely a twelvemonth since I drew tears from your eyes.
repeated Francisco, smiling; " I have shed but few tears.
I have had but few misfortunes in my life.
The stranger answered him by two extempore Italian lines, which conveyed nearly the same idea that has been so well expressed by an English poet:--
My genius has broken through the clouds of misfortune of late.
A few happy impromptu verses I made on the Count de Flora's fall from his horse attracted attention.
I am here now to learn the fate of an ode I have just composed for his lady's birthday.
My ode was to have been set to music, and to have been performed at his villa near Torre del Greco, if these troubles had not intervened.
Now that the mountain is quiet again, people will return to their senses.
I expect to be munificently rewarded.
But, perhaps, I detain you.
Go; I shall not forget to celebrate the heroic action you have performed this day.
I still amuse myself amongst the populace in my tattered garb late in the evenings, and I shall sound your praises through Naples in a poem I mean to recite on the late eruption of Mount Vesuvius.
The Improvisatore was as good as his word.
That evening, with more than his usual enthusiasm, he recited his verses to a great crowd of people in one of the public squares.
Amongst the crowd were several to whom the name of Francisco was well known, and by whom he was well beloved.
These were his young companions, who remembered him as a fruit-seller amongst the little merchants.
They rejoiced to hear his praises, and repeated the lines with shouts of applause.
What is all this disturbance in the streets?
said a man, pushing his way through the crowd.
A lad who held by his arm stopped suddenly on hearing the name of Francisco, which the people were repeating with so much enthusiasm.
I have found at last a story that interests you more than that of Cornaro the Turk," cried the Improvisatore, looking in the face of the youth, who had stopped so suddenly.
Promise me you won't touch it now," said he, throwing down the hat at his feet, " or you hear not one word I have to say.
Not one word of the heroic action performed at the villa of the Count de Flora, near Torre del Greco, this morning, by Signor Francisco.
repeated the lad with disdain.
What of SIGNOR Francisco?
said the lad, whom our readers have probably before this time discovered to be Piedro.
Francisco is gone down hither now with some of the count's domestics to protect the valuable goods against those villainous plunderers, who robbed their fellow-creatures of what even the flames of Vesuvius would spare.
This man was one of the villains against whom the honest orator expressed such indignation.
He was one of those with whom Piedro got acquainted during the time that he was living extravagantly upon the money he gained by the sale of the stolen diamond cross.
That robbery was not discovered; and his success, as he called it, hardened him in guilt.
He was both unwilling and unable to withdraw himself from the bad company with whom his ill gotten wealth connected him.
He did not consider that bad company leads to the gallows.
The universal confusion which followed the eruption of Mount Vesuvius was to these villains a time of rejoicing.
No sooner did Piedro's companion hear of the rich furniture, plate, etc., which the imprudent orator had described as belonging to the Count de Flora's villa, than he longed to make himself master of the whole.
The servants we might corrupt; but even the old proverb of'Angle with a silver hook,' * won't hold good with him.
I know him from a child, and we had better think of some other house for to-night's business.
The person to whom he alluded was one of the gang of robbers who had been assassinated by his companions for hesitating to commit some crime suggested by their leader.
No tyranny is so dreadful as that which is exercised by villains over their young accomplices, who become their slaves.
Piedro, who was of a cowardly nature, trembled at the threatening countenance of his captain, and promised submission.
In the course of the morning, inquiries were made secretly amongst the count's servants; and the two men who were engaged to sit up at the villa that night along with Francisco, were bribed to second the views of this gang of thieves.
It was agreed that about midnight the robbers should be let into the house; that Francisco should be tied hand and foot, whilst they carried off their booty.
You don't require to be reminded of what I said to you when we were alone just now?
Piedro's voice failed, and some of his comrades observed that he was young and new to the business.
The captain, who, from being his pretended friend during his wealthy days, had of late become his tyrant, cast a stern look at Piedro, and bid him be sure to be at the old Jew's, which was the place of meeting, in the dusk of the evening.
After saying this he departed.
Piedro, when he was alone, tried to collect his thoughts-all his thoughts were full of horror.
said he to himself; " what am I about?
Did I understand rightly what he said about poniards?
Francisco; oh, Francisco!
Excellent, kind, generous Francisco!
Yes, I recollect your look when you held the bunch of grapes to my lips, as I sat by the sea-shore deserted by all the world; and now, what friends have I. Robbers and --" The word MURDERERS he could not utter.
He again recollected what had been said about poniards, and the longer his mind fixed upon the words, and the look that accompanied them, the more he was shocked.
He could not doubt but that it was the serious intention of his accomplices to murder Francisco, if he should make any resistance.
Piedro had at this moment no friend in the world to whom he could apply for advice or assistance.
His wretched father died some weeks before this time, in a fit of intoxication.
Piedro walked up and down the street, scarcely capable of thinking, much less of coming to any rational resolution.
The place of meeting was at the house of that Jew to whom he, several months before, sold the diamond cross.
That cross which he thought himself so lucky to have stolen, and to have disposed of undetected, was, in fact, the cause of his being in his present dreadful situation.
It was at the Jew's that he connected himself with this gang of robbers, to whom he was now become an absolute slave.
said he to himself, with a deep sigh, as he knocked softly at the back door of the Jew's house.
The back door opened into a narrow, unfrequented street, and some small rooms at this side of the house were set apart for the reception of guests who desired to have their business kept secret.
At the moment Piedro knocked at the back door, the front shop was full of customers; and the Jew's boy, whose office it was to attend to these signals, let Piedro in, told him that none of his comrades were yet come, and left him in a room by himself.
He was pale and trembling, and felt a cold dew spread over him.
He had a leaden image of Saint Januarius tied round his neck, which, in the midst of his wickedness, he superstitiously preserved as a sort of charm, and on this he kept his eyes stupidly fixed, as he sat alone in this gloomy place.
He listened from time to time, but he heard no noise at the side of the house where he was.
His accomplices did not arrive, and, in a sort of impatient terror, the attendant upon an evil conscience, he flung open the door of his cell, and groped his way through the passage which he knew led to the public shop.
He longed to hear some noise, and to mix with the living.
The Jew, when Piedro entered the shop, was bargaining with a poor, thin-looking man about some gunpowder.
I tell you the simple truth, that so soon after the grand eruption of Mount Vesuvius, the people of Naples will not relish fireworks.
My poor little rockets, and even my Catherine-wheels, will have no effect.
I am glad to part with all I have in this line of business.
A few days ago I had fine things in readiness for the Countess de Flora's birthday, which was to have been celebrated at the count's villa.
What is your discourse to me?
said Piedro, who imagined that the man fixed his eyes upon him as he mentioned the name of the count's villa.
You were in the street with me the night I let off that unlucky rocket, which frightened the horses, and was the cause of overturning a lady's coach.
Don't you remember the circumstance?
That lady, though I did not know it till lately, was the Countess de Flora.
His confusion was so marked, that the firework-maker could not avoid taking notice of it; and a silence of some moments ensued.
The Jew, more practised in dissimulation than Piedro, endeavoured to turn the man's attention back to his rockets and his gunpowder-agreed to take the gunpowder-paid for it in haste, and was, though apparently unconcerned, eager to get rid of him.
But this was not so easily done.
The man's curiosity was excited, and his suspicions of Piedro were increased every moment by all the dark changes of his countenance.
Piedro, overpowered with the sense of guilt, surprised at the unexpected mention of the diamond cross, and of the Count de Flora's villa, stood like one convicted, and seemed fixed to the spot, without power of motion.
Piedro felt for the leaden image of the saint, which he wore round his neck.
The string which held it cracked, and broke with the pull he gave it.
This slight circumstance affected his terrified and superstitious mind more than all the rest.
He imagined that at this moment his fate was decided; that Saint Januarius deserted him, and that he was undone.
He precipitately followed the firework-man the instant he left the shop, and seizing hold of his arm, whispered, " I must speak to you.
You are going to the Count de Flora's, are not you?
He was going there to speak to the countess about some artificial flowers; but Piedro thought he was going to speak to her about the diamond cross.
Nay, hear me, I confess that I purloined that diamond cross; but I can do the count a great service, upon condition that he pardons me.
His villa is to be attacked this night by four well armed men.
They will set out five hours hence.
I am compelled, under the threat of assassination, to accompany them; but I shall do no more.
I throw myself upon the count's mercy.
Hasten to him-we have no time to lose.
The poor man, who heard this confession, escaped from Piedro the moment he loosed his arm.
With all possible expedition he ran to the count's palace in Naples, and related to him all that had been said by Piedro.
Some of the count's servants, on whom he could most depend, were at a distant part of the city attending their mistress, but the English gentleman offered the services of his man Arthur.
Arthur no sooner heard the business, and understood that Francisco was in danger, than he armed himself without saying one word, saddled his English horse, and was ready to depart before anyone else had finished their exclamations and conjectures.
They waited, much against Arthur's inclination, a considerable time for these sbirri.
At length they set out, and just as they reached the villa, the flash of the pistol was seen from one of the apartments in the house.
This pistol was snapped by their captain at poor Francisco, who had bravely asserted that he would, as long as he had life, defend the property committed to his care.
The pistol missed fire, for it was charged with some of the damaged powder which the Jew had bought that evening from the firework maker, and which he had sold as excellent immediately afterwards to his favourite customers-the robbers who met at his house.
Arthur, as soon as he perceived the flash of the piece, pressed forward through all the apartments, followed by the count's servants and the officers of justice.
At the sudden appearance of so many armed men, the robbers stood dismayed.
Arthur eagerly shook Francisco's hand, congratulating him upon his safety, and did not perceive, till he had given him several rough friendly shakes, that his arm was wounded, and that he was pale with the loss of blood.
take me to prison-I am weary of life-I am a wretch not fit to live!
cried Piedro, holding his hands to be tied by the sbirri.
The next morning Piedro was conveyed to prison; and as he passed through the streets of Naples he was met by several of those who had known him when he was a child.
He was ordered to remain twelve months in solitary confinement.
His captain and his accomplices were sent to the galleys, and the Jew was banished from Naples.
And now, having got these villains out of the way, let us return to honest Francisco.
His wound was soon healed.
Arthur was no bad surgeon, for he let his patient get well as fast as he pleased; and Carlo and Rosetta nursed him with so much kindness, that he was almost sorry to find himself perfectly recovered.
The value of a handsome portion of furniture, plate, etc., in the Count de Flora's villa, was, according to the count's promise, given to him; and this money he divided between his own family and that of the good carpenter who first put a pencil into his hands.
Arthur would not accept of any present from him.
To Mr. Lee, the English gentleman, he offered one of his own drawings-a fruit-piece.
It is now three years ago since I was going to buy that bruised melon from you; you showed me your honest nature then, though you were but a boy; and I have found you the same ever since.
A good beginning makes a good ending-an honest boy will make an honest man; and honesty is the best policy, as you have proved to all who wanted the proof, I hope.
to rear the tender thought- To teach the young idea how to shoot- To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind- To breathe th'enlivening spirit- and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
Young Hardy was educated by Mr. Freeman, a very excellent master, at one of our rural Sunday schools.
His friend Loveit, on the contrary, wished to be universally liked, and his highest ambition was to be thought the best natured boy in the school-and so he was.
One fine autumn evening, all the boys were permitted to go out to play in a pleasant green meadow near the school.
Loveit and another boy, called Tarlton, began to play a game of battledore and shuttlecock, and a large party stood by to look on, for they were the best players at battledore and shuttlecock in the school, and this was a trial of skill between them.
When they had got it up to three hundred and twenty, the game became very interesting.
The arms of the combatants tired that they could scarcely wield the battledores.
The shuttlecock began to waver in the air; now it almost touched the ground, and now, to the astonishment of the spectators, mounted again high over their heads: yet the strokes became feebler and feebler; and " Now, Loveit!
For another minute the victory was doubtful; but at length the setting sun, shining full in Loveit's face, so dazzled his eyes that he could no longer see the shuttlecock, and it fell at his feet.
After the first shout for Tarlton's triumph was over, everybody exclaimed, " Poor Loveit!
he's the best natured fellow in the world!
What a pity that he did not stand with his back to the sun!
said Tarlton, " what shall we do now?
The boys were strictly forbidden to go into the lane; and it was upon their promise not to break this command, that they were allowed to play in the adjoining field.
No other shuttlecock was to be had and their play was stopped.
They stood on the top of the bank, peeping over the hedge.
One could get over the gate at the bottom of the field, and be back again in half a minute," added he, looking at Loveit.
said Tarlton, " why, now, what harm could it do?
why, then, what are you afraid of, I ask you?
Loveit coloured, went on drumming, and again, in a lower voice, said " HE DIDN'T KNOW.
But upon Tarlton's repeating, in a more insolent tone, " I ask you, man, what you're afraid of?
he suddenly left off drumming, and looking round, said, " he was not afraid of anything that he knew of.
said Loveit; " of what, pray, am I afraid?
repeated Tarlton, mimicking him, so that he made everybody laugh.
Hardy smiled; and Loveit, half afraid of his contempt, and half afraid of Tarlton's ridicule, stood doubtful, and again had recourse to his battledore, which he balanced most curiously upon his forefinger.
cried Tarlton; " did you ever in your life see anybody look so silly?Hardy has him quite under his thumb; he's so mortally afraid of Parson Prig, that he dare not, for the soul of him, turn either of his eyes from the tip of his nose; look how he squints!
and what Hardy said was only for fear I should get in disgrace; he's the best friend I have.
Loveit spoke this with more than usual spirit, for both his heart and his pride were touched.
said Loveit, turning his head hastily back.
I had better go back, and just tell them that I'm very sorry I can't get their shuttlecock; do come back with me.
Once returned, the rest followed, of course; for to support his character of good-nature he was obliged to yield to the entreaties of his companions, and to show his spirit, leapt over the gate, amidst the acclamations of the little mob:he was quickly out of sight.
cried everybody, eagerly.
At this speech a general silence ensued; everybody kept their eyes fixed upon Tarlton, except Loveit, who looked down, apprehensive that he should be drawn on much farther than he intended.
said he to himself, " as Hardy told me, I had better not have come back!
Regardless of this confusion, Tarlton continued, " But before I say any more, I hope we have no spies amongst us.
If there is any one of you afraid to be flogged, let him march off this instant!
Loveit coloured, bit his lips, wished to go, but had not the courage to move first.
He waited to see what everybody else would do: nobody stirred; so Loveit stood still.
Each boy gave his hand and his promise; repeating, " Stand by me, and I'll stand by you.
Loveit hung back till the last; and had almost twisted off the button of the boy's coat who screened him, when Tarlton came up, holding out his hand, " Come, Loveit, lad, you're in for it: stand by me, and I'll stand by you.
Do, pray, give up this scheme.
you have'n't heard it yet; you may as well know your text before you begin preaching.
The corners of Loveit's mouth could not refuse to smile, though in his heart he felt not the slightest inclination to laugh.
repeated Loveit, with terror; " no, surely, you won't all HATE me!
and he mechanically stretched out his hand which Tarlton shook violently, saying, " Ay, now, that's right.
whispered Loveit's conscience; but his conscience was of no use to him, for it was always overpowered by the voice of numbers; and though he had the wish, he never had the power, to do right.
I knew he would not refuse us," cried his companions; and even Tarlton, the moment he shook hands with him, despised him.
It is certain that weakness of mind is despised both by the good and the bad.
The league being thus formed, Tarlton assumed all the airs of commander, explained his schemes, and laid the plan of attack upon the poor old man's apple-tree.
It was the only one he had the world.
We shall not dwell upon their consultation; for the amusement of contriving such expeditions is often the chief thing which induces idle boys to engage in them.
There was a small window at the end of the back staircase, through which, between nine and ten o'clock at night, Tarlton, accompanied by Loveit and another boy, crept out.
It was a moonlight night, and after crossing the field, and climbing the gate, directed by Loveit, who now resolved to go through the affair with spirit, they proceeded down the lane with rash yet fearful steps.
At a distance Loveit saw the white washed cottage, and the apple-tree beside it.
They quickened their pace, and with some difficulty scrambled through the hedge which fenced the garden, though not without being scratched and torn by the briers.
Yet now and then, at every rustling of the leaves, they started, and their hearts beat violently.
Once, as Loveit was climbing the apple-tree, he thought he heard a door in the cottage open, and earnestly begged his companions to desist and return home.
This, however, he could by no means persuade them to do, until they had filled their pockets with apples; then, to his great joy, they returned, crept in at the window and each retired, as softly as possible, to his own apartment.
Loveit slept in the room with Hardy, whom he had left fast asleep, and whom he now was extremely afraid of awakening.
All the apples were emptied out of Loveit's pockets, and lodged with Tarlton till the morning, for fear the smell should betray the secret to Hardy.
The room door was apt to creak, but it was opened with such precaution, that no noise could be heard, and Loveit found his friend as fast asleep as when he left him.
I wish I had been sleeping too.
The reproaches of Loveit's conscience, however, served no other purpose but to torment him; he had not sufficient strength of mind to be good.
The very next night, in spite of all his fears, and all his penitence, and all his resolutions, by a little fresh ridicule and persuasion he was induced to accompany the same party on a similar expedition.
We must observe, that the necessity for continuing their depredations became stronger the third day; for, though at first only a small party had been in the secret, by degrees it was divulged to the whole school; and it was necessary to secure secrecy by sharing the booty.
Everyone was astonished that Hardy, with all his quickness and penetration, had not yet discovered their proceedings; but Loveit could not help suspecting that he was not quite so ignorant as he appeared to be.
It was in vain that he urged Tarlton to permit him to consult his friend.
In the meantime, the visits to the apple-tree had been now too frequently repeated to remain concealed from the old man who lived in the cottage.
The good old man was not at all inclined to give pain to any living creature, much less to children, of whom he was particularly fond.
Nor was he in the least avaricious, for though he was not rich, he had enough to live upon, because he had been very industrious in his youth; and he was always very ready to part with the little he had.
Nor was he a cross old man.
If anything would have made him angry, it would have been the seeing his favourite tree robbed, as he had promised himself the pleasure of giving his red apples to his grandchildren on his birthday.
However, he looked up at the tree in sorrow rather than in anger, and leaning upon his staff, he began to consider what he had best do.
Let me see-oh, ay, that will do; I will borrow farmer Kent's dog Barker, he'll keep them off, I'll answer for it.
Farmer Kent lent his dog Barker, cautioning his neighbour, at the same time, to be sure to chain him well, for he was the fiercest mastiff in England.
The old man, with farmer Kent's assistance, chained him fast to the trunk of the apple-tree.
Night came; and Tarlton, Loveit and his companions, returned at the usual hour.
Grown bolder now by frequent success, they came on talking and laughing.
But the moment they had set their foot in the garden, the dog started up; and, shaking the chain as he sprang forward, barked with unremitting fury.
They stood still as if fixed to the spot.
There was just moonlight enough to see the dog.
But to whichever side they turned, the dog flew round in an instant, barking with increased fury.
I can't get through the hedge," cried Loveit, in a lamentable tone, whilst the dog growled hideously, and sprang forward to the extremity of his chain.
Oh, for God's sake, stay for me one minute, dear Tarlton!
He called in vain; he was left to struggle through his difficulties by himself; and of all his dear friends not one turned back to help him.
At last, torn and terrified, he got through the hedge and ran home, despising his companions for their selfishness.
Nor could he help observing that Tarlton, with all his vaunted prowess, was the first to run away from the appearance of danger.
The next morning Loveit could not help reproaching the party with their conduct.
Everyone for himself in this world!
is there anything strange in that?
why, yes; I thought you all loved me!
so we do; but we love ourselves better.
said he; " what nonsense have you taken into your brain!
We are all very sorry, and beg your pardon; come, shake hands, forgive and forget.
Loveit gave his hand, but gave it rather coldly.
Surely you cannot bear malice, Loveit.
Loveit smiled, and allowed that he certainly could not bear malice.
Poor Loveit, flattered in his foible, began to believe that they did love him at the bottom, as they said, and even with his eyes open consented again to be duped.
When I'm once out of this scrape, I'll have no more to do with them, I'm determined.
Compared with his friend Hardy, his new associates did indeed appear contemptible; for all this time Hardy had treated him with uniform kindness, avoided to pry into his secrets, yet seemed ready to receive his confidence, if it had been offered.
After school in the evening, as he was standing silently beside Hardy, who was ruling a sheet of paper for him, Tarlton, in his brutal manner, came up, and seizing him by the arm, cried, " Come along with me, Loveit, I've something to say to you.
I wish you'd let me alone," said Loveit; yet at the same time he suffered himself to he led away.
Tarlton took particular pains to humour him and bring him into temper again; and even though he was not very apt to part with his playthings, went so far as to say, " Loveit, the other day you wanted a top; I'll give you mine if you desire it.
Loveit thanked him, and was overjoyed at the thought of possessing this top.
exclaimed Loveit, starting back with horror.
Loveit stood for nearly a minute in profound silence.
If you think there's any harm?
Surely we know better what's right and wrong than Tom does.
There was a dog poisoned at my father's-I saw him in the yard.
He lay and howled and writhed himself!
Well, there's no harm done now," cried Tarlton, in a hypocritical tone.
But though he thought fit to dissemble with Loveit, he was thoroughly determined in his purpose.
Poor Loveit, in haste to get away, returned to his friend Hardy; but his mind was in such agitation, that he neither talked nor moved like himself; and two or three times his heart was so full that he was ready to burst into tears.
After prayers, as they were going to bed, Loveit stopped Tarlton-" WELL!
asked he, in an inquiring manner, fixing his eyes upon him.
replied Tarlton, in an audacious tone, as if he meant to set his inquiring eye at defiance.
said Loveit to himself, " else he could not whistle.
About ten minutes after this, as he and Hardy were undressing, Hardy suddenly recollected that he had left his new kite out upon the grass.
They both went to the top of the stairs to call Tom; no one answered.
They called again louder, " Is Tom below?
And as he was receiving Hardy's commission, Loveit saw the corner of the blue handkerchief hanging out of his pocket.
This excited fresh suspicions in Loveit's mind; but, without saying one word, he immediately stationed himself at the window in his room, which looked out towards the lane; and, as the moon was risen, he could see if anyone passed that way.
said Hardy, after he had been watching some time; " why don't you come to bed?
Loveit returned no answer, but continued standing at the window.
Nor did he watch long in vain.
Presently he saw Tom gliding slowly along a by-path, and get over the gate into the lane.
exclaimed Loveit aloud, with an emotion which he could not command.
cried Hardy, starting up.
returned Hardy, in that commanding tone which, in moments of danger, strong minds feel themselves entitled to assume towards weak ones.
Loveit instantly, though in an incoherent manner, explained the affair to him.
Scarcely had the words passed his lips, when Hardy sprang up, and began dressing himself without saying one syllable.
said Loveit, in great anxiety.
only say you won't betray us.
He came up with Tom just as he was climbing the bank into the old man's garden.
Hardy, too much out of breath to speak, seized hold of him, dragged him down, detaining him with a firm grasp, whilst he panted for utterance.
said Tom, clapping his hand upon his guilty pocket.
I don't know what you mean," said Tom, trembling, though he was by far the stronger of the two.
The dog, now alarmed by the voices, began to bark outrageously.
Tom was terrified lest the old man should come out to see what was the matter; his strength forsook him, and flinging the handkerchief and meat over the hedge, he ran away with all his speed.
The handkerchief fell within reach of the dog, who instantly snapped at it; luckily it did not come untied.
Hardy saw a pitchfork on a dunghill close beside him, and, seizing upon it, stuck it into the handkerchief.
Never did hero retire with more satisfaction from a field of battle.
Full of the pleasure of successful benevolence, Hardy tripped joyfully home, and vaulted over the window sill, when the first object he beheld was Mr. Power, the usher, standing at the head of the stairs, with his candle in his hand.
Come up, whoever you are!
Hardy obeyed without reply-" Hardy!
exclaimed Mr. Power, starting back with astonishment; " is it you, Mr.
repeated he, holding the light to his face.
Will you please to do me the favour, sir, if it is not too much trouble, to empty your pockets.
cried Mr. William Power, letting it drop out of his fingers; " you wretch!
looking at him with a menacing air: " what is all this?
cried he, shaking him by the shoulder impatiently.
If you hope for MY pardon, I can tell you it's not to be had without asking for.
stick to it, stick to it, I advise you, and we shall see.
And how will you look to-morrow, Mr. Innocent, when my uncle, the doctor, comes home?
His composure threw Mr. Power into a rage too great for utterance.
Upon my word and honour, sir, I have done nothing wrong.
what, when I caught you going out at night?
Come along with me, young gentleman, your time for pardon is past.
Saying these words, he pulled Hardy along a narrow passage to a small closet, set apart for desperate offenders, and usually known by the name of the BLACK HOLE.
said Mr. William Power to himself, stalking off with steps which made the whole gallery resound, and which made many a guilty heart tremble.
The conversation which had passed between Hardy and Mr. Power at the head of the stairs had been anxiously listened to; but only a word or two here and there had been distinctly overheard.
The locking of the black hole door was a terrible sound-some knew not what it portended, and others knew TOO WELL.
All assembled in the morning with faces of anxiety.
Tarlton and Loveit's were the most agitated: Tarlton for himself, Loveit for his friend, for himself, for everybody.
Every one of the party, and Tarlton at their head, surrounded him with reproaches; and considered him as the author of the evils which hung over them.
and why did you say anything to Hardy about it?
when you had promised, too!
what a scrape you have brought us into, Loveit, it's all your fault!
repeated poor Loveit, with a sigh; " well, that is hard.
there's the bell," exclaimed a number of voices at once.
They all stood in a half circle for morning prayers.
They listened --" Here he is coming!
And Mr. William Power, with a gloomy brow, appeared and walked up to his place at the head of the room.
They knelt down to prayers, and the moment they rose, Mr. William Power, laying his hand upon the table, cried, " Stand still, gentlemen, if you please.
Everybody stood stock still; he walked out of the circle; they guessed that he was gone for Hardy, and the whole room was in commotion.
Each with eagerness asked each what none could answer, " HAS HE TOLD?
At this instant the prisoner was led in, and as he passed through the circle, every eye was fixed upon him.
His eye fell upon no one, not even upon Loveit, who pulled him by the coat as he passed-everyone felt almost afraid to breathe.
He leaned upon his stick as he walked, and in his other hand carried a basket of apples.
When they came within the circle, Mr. Trueman stopped short.
exclaimed he, with a voice of unfeigned surprise, whilst Mr. William Power stood with his hand suspended-" Ay, Hardy, sir," repeated he.
Mr. Trueman advanced with a slow step.
Why do I talk of disobeying my commands-you are a thief!
exclaimed Hardy, no longer able to repress his feelings.
I have never had anything to do with thieves," cried Hardy, indignantly.
Don't you know the taste of these apples?
said Mr. Trueman, taking one out of the basket.
I never touched one of that old man's apples.
I suppose this is some vile equivocation; you have done worse, you have had the barbarity, the baseness, to attempt to poison his dog; the poisoned meat was found in your pocket last night.
Tarlton turned pale; Hardy's countenance never changed.
I will begin with the eldest of you; I will begin with Hardy, and flog you with my own hands till this handkerchief is owned.
Loveit groaned from the bottom of his heart.
Tarlton leaned back against the wall with a black countenance.
Hardy looked with a steady eye at the cane.
Perhaps we may find out the owner of this handkerchief another way," examining the corners.
It was torn almost to pieces; but luckily the corner that was marked remained.
Every eye turned upon the guilty Tarlton, who, now as pale as ashes and trembling in every limb, sank down upon his knees, and in a whining voice begged for mercy.
It was he that carried the meat, WASN'T IT?
said he, appealing to Hardy, whose word he knew must be believed.
continued he as Mr. Trueman began to move towards him, " do let me off; pray do let me off this time!
I'm not the only one, indeed, sir!
I hope you won't make me an example for the rest.
It's very hard I'm to be flogged more than they!
Punishment is meant only to make people better; and those who have any hopes of themselves will know how to submit to it.
At these words Loveit first, and immediately all the rest of the guilty party, stepped out of the ranks, confessed their fault, and declared themselves ready to bear any punishment their master thought proper.
Hardy looked as if he wished to speak.
Hardy bowed and his face glowed with pleasure, whilst everybody present sympathized in his feelings.
If you please, I'll plant on that mount, opposite the window, a young apple-tree, from my old one.
I will water it, and take care of it with my own hands for your sake, as long as I am able.
laying his trembling hand on Hardy's head; " may God bless you-I'm sure God WILL bless all such boys as you are.
At the foot of a steep, slippery, white hill, near Dunstable, in Bedfordshire, called Chalk Hill, there is a hut, or rather a hovel, which travellers could scarcely suppose could be inhabited, if they did not see the smoke rising from its peaked roof.
An old woman lives in this hovel, ** and with her a little boy and girl, the children of a beggar who died, and left these orphans perishing with hunger.
They thought themselves very happy when the good old woman first took them into her hut and bid them warm themselves at her small fire, and gave them a crust of mouldy bread to eat.
She had not much to give, but what she had she gave with good-will.
She was very kind to these poor children, and worked hard at her spinning-wheel and at her knitting, to support herself and them.
She earned money also in another way.
She used to follow all the carriages as they went up Chalk Hill, and when the horses stopped to take breath or to rest themselves, she put stones behind the carriage wheels to prevent them from rolling backwards down the steep, slippery hill.
The little boy and girl loved to stand beside the good natured old woman's spinning-wheel when she was spinning, and to talk to her.
At these times she taught them something, which, she said, she hoped they would remember all their lives.
She explained to them what is meant by telling the truth, and what it is to be honest.
She taught them to dislike idleness, and to wish that they could be useful.
The people who are in the carriages give you a halfpenny or a penny for doing this, don't they?
You often say that you are tired, and then you know that you cannot spin all that time.
Now if we might go up the hill, and put the stones behind the wheels, you could sit still at your work, and would not the people give us the halfpence?
and could not we bring them all to you?
Do, pray, dear grandmother, try us for one day-to-morrow, will you?
When she thought that the children knew how to manage by themselves, she left them, and returned to her spinning-wheel.
A great many carriages happened to go by this day, and the little girl received a great many halfpence.
She carried them all in her brother's hat to her grandmother in the evening; and the old woman smiled, and thanked the children.
She said that they had been useful to her, and that her spinning had gone on finely, because she had been able to sit still at her wheel all day.
It does not hurt me much, grandmother; and I've thought of a good thing for to-morrow.
I shall never be hurt again, if you will only be so good as to give me the old handle of the broken crutch, grandmother, and the block of wood that lies in the chimney-corner, and that is of no use.
I'll make it of some use, if I may have it.
Paul went to work immediately, and fastened one end of the pole into the block of wood, so as to make something like a dry-rubbing brush.
I call this thing my SCOTCHER," said Paul, " because I shall always scotch the wheels with it.
I shall never pinch my fingers again; my hands, you see, will be safe at the end of this long stick; and, sister Anne, you need not be at the trouble of carrying any more stones after me up the hill; we shall never want stones any more.
My scotcher will do without anything else, I hope.
I wish it was morning, and that a carriage would come, that I might run up the hill, and try my scotcher.
You may buy some gingerbread for yourselves, or some of those ripe plums that you saw at the fruit-stall the other day, which is just going into Dunstable.
I told you then that I could not afford to buy such things for you; but now that you can earn halfpence for yourselves, children, it is fair should taste a ripe plum and bit of gingerbread for once and a way in your lives.
The morning came; but no carriages were heard, though Paul and his sister had risen at five o'clock, that they might be sure to be ready for early travellers.
Paul kept his scotcher poised upon his shoulder, and watched eagerly at his station at the bottom of the hill.
He did not wait long before a carriage came.
He followed it up the hill; and the instant the postillion called to him, and bid him stop the wheels, he put his scotcher behind them, and found that it answered the purpose perfectly well.
Many carriages went by this day, and Paul and Anne received a great many halfpence from the travellers.
When it grew dusk in the evening, Anne said to her brother --" I don't think any more carriages will come by to-day.
Let us count the halfpence, and carry them home now to grandmother.
I daresay more carriages will come by before it is quite dark, and then we shall have more halfpence.
Stand you hereabouts, half-way up the hill, and the moment you see any carriage coming along the road, run as fast as you can and call me.
Anne waited a long time, or what she thought a long time; and she saw no carriage, and she trailed her brother's scotcher up and down till she was tired.
Then she stood still, and looked again, and she saw no carriage; so she went sorrowfully into the field, and to the hedge where her brother was gathering blackberries, and she said, " Paul, I'm sadly tired, SADLY TIRED!
said she, " and my eyes are quite strained with looking for chaises; no more chaises will come to-night; and your scotcher is lying there, of no use, upon the ground.
Have not I waited long enough for to-day, Paul?
Perhaps a carriage might go by whilst you are standing here talking to me.
Anne, who was of a very obliging temper, and who liked to do what she was asked to do, went back to the place where the scotcher lay; and scarcely had she reached the spot, when she heard the noise of a carriage.
She ran to call her brother, and to their great joy, they now saw four chaises coming towards them.
Anne held the hat; and she afterwards went on to the other carriages.
Money was thrown to her from each of them; and when they had all gotten safely to the top of the hill, she and her brother sat down upon a large stone by the roadside, to count their treasure.
First they began by counting what was in the hat --" One, two, three, four halfpence.
exclaimed Anne; " this is not the same as the other halfpence.
said Anne, who had never seen a guinea in her life before, and who did not know its value; " and will it do as well as a halfpenny to buy gingerbread?
I'll run to the fruit-stall, and ask the woman; shall I?
Not so well as my grandmother.
Prepared by this speech to hear something very difficult to be understood, Anne looked very grave, and her brother explained to her, that, with a guinea, she might buy two hundred and fifty-two times as many plums as she could get for a penny.
Now, for this little guinea, would she give us two hundred and fifty-two dozen?
But now I'll tell you what I am thinking of, Anne, that we might buy something for my grandmother, that would be very useful to her indeed, with the guinea-something that would last a great while.
Oh, yes, Paul, that will be much better than plums; do let us buy a blanket for her; how glad she will be to see it!
I will make her bed with the new blanket, and then bring her to see it.
But, Paul, how shall we buy a blanket?
Where are blankets to be got?
I know where blankets can be got.
I saw one hanging out of a shop the day I went last to Dunstable.
Do you remember how she used to shiver with the cold last winter?
I'll buy the blanket to-morrow.
I'm going to Dunstable with her spinning.
said Anne, clapping her hands.
don't clap your hands so, Anne; it will not be all happy, I'm afraid," said Paul, and his countenance changed, and he looked very grave.
We cannot buy the blanket, I'm afraid.
It was given to us, and grandmother said all that was given to us to-day was to be our own.
I don't know which of them, but I daresay it was the little rosy girl.
Now, if she gave you the guinea, she must have given it to you by mistake.
Paul thought this was excellent advice; and he was not a silly boy, who did not like to follow good advice.
He went with his sister directly to his grandmother, showed her the guinea, and told her how they came by it.
I am very glad that you did not buy either the plums or the blanket with this guinea.
I'm sure it is not honestly ours.
Those who threw it you gave it you by mistake, I warrant; and what I would have you do is, to go to Dunstable, and try if you can, at either of the inns find out the person who gave it to you.
It is now so late in the evening that perhaps the travellers will sleep at Dunstable, instead of going on the next stage; and it is likely that whosoever gave you a guinea instead of a halfpenny has found out their mistake by this time.
All you can do is to go and inquire for the gentleman who was reading in the chaise.
interrupted Paul, " I know a good way of finding him out.
I remember it was a dark green chaise with red wheels: and I remember I read the innkeeper's name upon the chaise,'John Nelson.'
You told me yesterday, grandmother, that the names written upon chaises are the innkeepers to whom they belong.
I read the name of the innkeeper upon that chaise.
So Anne and I will go to both the inns in Dunstable, and try to find out this chaise-John Nelson's.
Come, Anne; let us set out before it gets quite dark.
However, we are doing what is honest, and that is a comfort.
Here, we must go through this gateway, into the inn-yard; we are come to the'Dun Cow.'
said Anne, " I see no cow.
Come, never mind looking at it now; I want to find out the green chaise that has John Nelson's name upon it.
Paul pushed forward, through a crowded passage, till he got into the inn-yard.
There was a great noise and bustle.
The hostlers were carrying in luggage.
The postillions were rubbing down the horses, or rolling the chaises into the coach-house.
What business have you here, pray?
said a waiter, who almost ran over Paul, as he was crossing the yard in a great hurry to get some empty bottles from the bottle-rack.
Walk off, young gentleman, if you please.
said one of the postillions.
interrupted the hasty waiter, and he vas going to turn Paul out of the yard; but the hostler caught hold of his arm and said, " Maybe the child has some business here; let's know what he has to say for himself.
The postillion made no reply, but looked vexed, and went towards the house, desiring the children would wait in the passage till his return.
In the passage there was standing a decent, clean, good natured looking woman, with two huge straw baskets on each side of her.
One of the baskets stood a little in the way of the entrance.
A man who was pushing his way in, and carried in his hand a string of dead larks hung to a pole, impatient at being stopped, kicked down the straw basket, and all its contents were thrown out.
Bright straw hats, and boxes, and slippers, were all thrown in disorder upon the dirty ground.
They will be all spoiled!
exclaimed the woman to whom they belonged.
Here's the postillion can tell you so.
I and my master came in that chaise.
I and my master that was reading, as you say, and it was he that threw the money out to you.
He is going to bed; he is tired and can't see you himself.
He desires that you'll give me the guinea.
He pushed them towards the door; but the basket-woman whispered to them as they went out, " Wait in the street till I come to you.
You are famous for larks at Dunstable; and I make it a rule to taste the best of everything wherever I go; and, waiter, let me have a bottle of claret.
The postillion was still waiting, as if to speak to him; and she observed them afterwards whispering and laughing together.
Now it occurred to the basket-woman that this man had cheated the children out of the guinea to pay for the larks and claret; and she thought that perhaps she could discover the truth.
She waited quietly in the passage.
cried the landlady, " why don't you carry in the sweetmeat-puffs and the tarts here to the company in the best parlour?
Pray, what would you have the conscience, I wonder now, to charge me for these here half-dozen little mats to put under my dishes?
She let the landlady have the mats cheap, and the landlady then declared she would step in and see if the company in the best parlour had done supper.
The eyes of the children all turned towards their mother; their mother smiled, and immediately their father called in the basket-woman, and desired her to produce her CURIOSITIES.
The children gathered round her large pannier as it opened, but they did not touch any of her things.
cried a little rosy girl, " here are a pair of straw slippers that would just fit you, I think; but would not straw shoes wear out very soon?
and would not they let in the wet?
I must make amends," said he, laughing, " for my carelessness; and as I threw away a guinea to-day, I must endeavour to save sixpence at least?
Mamma, I wonder that the little girl did not take notice of its being a guinea, and that she did not run after the chaise to give it back again.
I should think, if she had been an honest girl, she would have returned it.
said the basket-woman, " if it would not be impertinent, may I speak a word?
I must see them-send after them.
He rang the bell, and desired the waiter to let the gentleman who was in the room opposite to him know that he wished to see him.
Mr. Pembroke came; and as soon as he heard what had happened, he desired the waiter to show him to the room where his servant was at supper.
that you got from this child; that guinea which you said I ordered you to ask for from this child.
The servant, confounded and half intoxicated, could only stammer out that he had more guineas than one about him, and that he really did not know which it was.
He pulled his money out, and spread it upon the table with trembling hands.
The marked guinea appeared.
His master instantly turned him out of his service with strong expressions of contempt.
In the same moment Anne and Paul exclaimed, " The thing we wish for the most in the world is a blanket for our grandmother.
She had the rheumatism sadly last winter, sir; and there is a blanket in this street that would be just the thing for her.
Do you like to be employed or to be idle best?
said the gentleman, pointing to one of the Dunstable straw-baskets.
The gentleman put a guinea into the good natured basket-woman's hand, and told her that he knew she could not afford to teach them her trade for nothing.
If I find that they are, I will do something more for you.
I'll walk with you, and see you safe home myself.
The gentleman detained them a few minutes longer, till a messenger whom he had dispatched to purchase the much wished for blanket returned.
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt?
Him the Almighty Power Hurled headlong flaming from th'ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion, down To bottomless perdition, there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy th'Omnipotent to arms.
Nine times the space that measures day and night To mortal men, he, with his horrid crew, Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf, Confounded, though immortal.
But his doom Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought Both of lost happiness and lasting pain Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes, That witnessed huge affliction and dismay, Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.
At once, as far as Angels ken, he views The dismal situation waste and wild.
Such place Eternal Justice has prepared For those rebellious; here their prison ordained In utter darkness, and their portion set, As far removed from God and light of Heaven As from the centre thrice to th'utmost pole.
Oh how unlike the place from whence they fell!
There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, He soon discerns; and, weltering by his side, One next himself in power, and next in crime, Long after known in Palestine, and named Beelzebub.
To whom th'Arch-Enemy, And thence in Heaven called Satan, with bold words Breaking the horrid silence, thus began:" If thou beest he-but O how fallen!
What though the field be lost?
All is not lost-the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield: And what is else not to be overcome?
That glory never shall his wrath or might Extort from me.
What can it the avail though yet we feel Strength undiminished, or eternal being To undergo eternal punishment?
Whereto with speedy words th'Arch-Fiend replied:" Fallen Cherub, to be weak is miserable, Doing or suffering: but of this be sure-To do aught good never will be our task, But ever to do ill our sole delight, As being the contrary to his high will Whom we resist.
Let us not slip th'occasion, whether scorn Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe.
Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, The seat of desolation, void of light, Save what the glimmering of these livid flames Casts pale and dreadful?
Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam, The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff, Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, With fixed anchor in his scaly rind, Moors by his side under the lee, while night Invests the sea, and wished morn delays.
Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool His mighty stature; on each hand the flames Driven backward slope their pointing spires, and, rolled In billows, leave i'th'midst a horrid vale.
Such resting found the sole Of unblest feet.
Him followed his next mate; Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian flood As gods, and by their own recovered strength, Not by the sufferance of supernal Power.
Be it so, since he Who now is sovereign can dispose and bid What shall be right: farthest from him is best Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme Above his equals.
Farewell, happy fields, Where joy for ever dwells!
and thou, profoundest Hell, Receive thy new possessor-one who brings A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be, all but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater?
Here at least We shall be free; th'Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reigh secure; and, in my choice, To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
So Satan spake; and him Beelzebub Thus answered:--" Leader of those armies bright Which, but th'Omnipotent, none could have foiled!
He scare had ceased when the superior Fiend Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield, Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, Behind him cast.
The broad circumference Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views At evening, from the top of Fesole, Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe.
So thick bestrown, Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood, Under amazement of their hideous change.
He called so loud that all the hollow deep Of Hell resounded:--" Princes, Potentates, Warriors, the Flower of Heaven-once yours; now lost, If such astonishment as this can seize Eternal Spirits!
Or have ye chosen this place After the toil of battle to repose Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven?
Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen!
They heard, and were abashed, and up they sprung Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch On duty, sleeping found by whom they dread, Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake.
Nor did they not perceive the evil plight In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel; Yet to their General's voice they soon obeyed Innumerable.
Say, Muse, their names then known, who first, who last, Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch, At their great Emperor's call, as next in worth Came singly where he stood on the bare strand, While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof?
First, Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood Of human sacrifice, and parents'tears; Though, for the noise of drums and timbrels loud, Their children's cries unheard that passed through fire To his grim idol.
Him the Ammonite Worshiped in Rabba and her watery plain, In Argob and in Basan, to the stream Of utmost Arnon.
Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged Even to that hill of scandal, by the grove Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate, Till good Josiah drove them thence to Hell.
With these came they who, from the bordering flood Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names Of Baalim and Ashtaroth-those male, These feminine.
For those the race of Israel oft forsook Their Living Strength, and unfrequented left His righteous altar, bowing lowly down To bestial gods; for which their heads as low Bowed down in battle, sunk before the spear Of despicable foes.
Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seat Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams.
He also against the house of God was bold: A leper once he lost, and gained a king-Ahaz, his sottish conqueror, whom he drew God's altar to disparage and displace For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn His odious offerings, and adore the gods Whom he had vanquished.
After these appeared A crew who, under names of old renown-Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train-With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused Fanatic Egypt and her priests to seek Their wandering gods disguised in brutish forms Rather than human.
Belial came last; than whom a Spirit more lewd Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love Vice for itself.
To him no temple stood Or altar smoked; yet who more oft than he In temples and at altars, when the priest Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who filled With lust and violence the house of God?
In courts and palaces he also reigns, And in luxurious cities, where the noise Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers, And injury and outrage; and, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
Witness the streets of Sodom, and that night In Gibeah, when the hospitable door Exposed a matron, to avoid worse rape.
All these and more came flocking; but with looks Downcast and damp; yet such wherein appeared Obscure some glimpse of joy to have found their Chief Not in despair, to have found themselves not lost In loss itself; which on his countenance cast Like doubtful hue.
But he, his wonted pride Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore Semblance of worth, not substance, gently raised Their fainting courage, and dispelled their fears.
Then straight commands that, at the warlike sound Of trumpets loud and clarions, be upreared His mighty standard.
All in a moment through the gloom were seen Ten thousand banners rise into the air, With orient colours waving: with them rose A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms Appeared, and serried shields in thick array Of depth immeasurable.
Thus they, Breathing united force with fixed thought, Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmed Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil.
And now Advanced in view they stand-a horrid front Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise Of warriors old, with ordered spear and shield, Awaiting what command their mighty Chief Had to impose.
He through the armed files Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse The whole battalion views-their order due, Their visages and stature as of gods; Their number last he sums.
Thus far these beyond Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed Their dread Commander.
He, above the rest In shape and gesture proudly eminent, Stood like a tower.
Darkened so, yet shone Above them all th'Archangel: but his face Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride Waiting revenge.
He now prepared To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bend From wing to wing, and half enclose him round With all his peers: attention held them mute.
Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn, Tears, such as Angels weep, burst forth: at last Words interwove with sighs found out their way:" O myriads of immortal Spirits!
O Powers Matchless, but with th'Almighth- and that strife Was not inglorious, though th'event was dire, As this place testifies, and this dire change, Hateful to utter.
But what power of mind, Forseeing or presaging, from the depth Of knowledge past or present, could have feared How such united force of gods, how such As stood like these, could ever know repulse?
For who can yet believe, though after loss, That all these puissant legions, whose exile Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to re-ascend, Self-raised, and repossess their native seat?
For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, If counsels different, or danger shunned By me, have lost our hopes.
But he who reigns Monarch in Heaven till then as one secure Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute, Consent or custom, and his regal state Put forth at full, but still his strength concealed-Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall.
Space may produce new Worlds; whereof so rife There went a fame in Heaven that he ere long Intended to create, and therein plant A generation whom his choice regard Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven.
Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps Our first eruption-thither, or elsewhere; For this infernal pit shall never hold Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor th'Abyss Long under darkness cover.
But these thoughts Full counsel must mature.
Peace is despaired; For who can think submission?
War, then, war Open or understood, must be resolved.
He spake; and, to confirm his words, outflew Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze Far round illumined Hell.
Highly they raged Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war, Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.
There stood a hill not far, whose grisly top Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire Shone with a glossy scurf-undoubted sign That in his womb was hid metallic ore, The work of sulphur.
Thither, winged with speed, A numerous brigade hastened: as when bands Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe armed, Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field, Or cast a rampart.
Mammon led them on-Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell From Heaven; for even in Heaven his looks and thoughts Were always downward bent, admiring more The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden gold, Than aught divine or holy else enjoyed In vision beatific.
By him first Men also, and by his suggestion taught, Ransacked the centre, and with impious hands Rifled the bowels of their mother Earth For treasures better hid.
Soon had his crew Opened into the hill a spacious wound, And digged out ribs of gold.
Let none admire That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best Deserve the precious bane.
Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, That underneath had veins of liquid fire Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude With wondrous art founded the massy ore, Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion-dross.
A third as soon had formed within the ground A various mould, and from the boiling cells By strange conveyance filled each hollow nook; As in an organ, from one blast of wind, To many a row of pipes the sound-board breathes.
Not Babylon Nor great Alcairo such magnificence Equalled in all their glories, to enshrine Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove In wealth and luxury.
The hasty multitude Admiring entered; and the work some praise, And some the architect.
His hand was known In Heaven by many a towered structure high, Where sceptred Angels held their residence, And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King Exalted to such power, and gave to rule, Each in his Hierarchy, the Orders bright.
Thus they relate, Erring; for he with this rebellious rout Fell long before; nor aught aviled him now To have built in Heaven high towers; nor did he scape By all his engines, but was headlong sent, With his industrious crew, to build in Hell.
Meanwhile the winged Heralds, by command Of sovereign power, with awful ceremony And trumpet's sound, throughout the host proclaim A solemn council forthwith to be held At Pandemonium, the high capital Of Satan and his peers.
Their summons called From every band and squared regiment By place or choice the worthiest: they anon With hundreds and with thousands trooping came Attended.
As bees In spring-time, when the Sun with Taurus rides.
Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms Reduced their shapes immense, and were at large, Though without number still, amidst the hall Of that infernal court.
But far within, And in their own dimensions like themselves, The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim In close recess and secret conclave sat, A thousand demi-gods on golden seats, Frequent and full.
After short silence then, And summons read, the great consult began.
The happier state In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw Envy from each inferior; but who here Will envy whom the highest place exposes Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share Of endless pain?
Where there is, then, no good For which to strive, no strife can grow up there From faction: for none sure will claim in Hell Precedence; none whose portion is so small Of present pain that with ambitious mind Will covet more!
Who can advise may speak.
He ceased; and next him Moloch, sceptred king, Stood up-the strongest and the fiercest Spirit That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair.
His trust was with th'Eternal to be deemed Equal in strength, and rather than be less Cared not to be at all; with that care lost Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse, He recked not, and these words thereafter spake:" My sentence is for open war.
Of wiles, More unexpert, I boast not: them let those Contrive who need, or when they need; not now.
But perhaps The way seems difficult, and steep to scale With upright wing against a higher foe!
Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, That in our porper motion we ascend Up to our native seat; descent and fall To us is adverse.
Who but felt of late, When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear Insulting, and pursued us through the Deep, With what compulsion and laborious flight We sunk thus low?
Th'ascent is easy, then; Th'event is feared!
Should we again provoke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find To our destruction, if there be in Hell Fear to be worse destroyed!
What can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned In this abhorred deep to utter woe!
Where pain of unextinguishable fire Must exercise us without hope of end The vassals of his anger, when the scourge Inexorably, and the torturing hour, Calls us to penance?
More destroyed than thus, We should be quite abolished, and expire.
what doubt we to incense His utmost ire?
He ended frowning, and his look denounced Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous To less than gods.
On th'other side up rose Belial, in act more graceful and humane.
A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seemed For dignity composed, and high exploit.
But all was false and hollow; though his tongue Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, to perplex and dash Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low-To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds Timorous and slothful.
The towers of Heaven are filled With armed watch, that render all access Impregnable: oft on the bodering Deep Encamp their legions, or with obscure wing Scout far and wide into the realm of Night, Scorning surprise.
Thus repulsed, our final hope Is flat despair: we must exasperate Th'Almighty Victor to spend all his rage; And that must end us; that must be our cure-To be no more.
for who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated Night, Devoid of sense and motion?
And who knows, Let this be good, whether our angry Foe Can give it, or will ever?
How he can Is doubtful; that he never will is sure.
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, Belike through impotence or unaware, To give his enemies their wish, and end Them in his anger whom his anger saves To punish endless?
Say they who counsel war;'we are decreed, Reserved, and destined to eternal woe; Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, What can we suffer worse?'
Is this, then, worst-Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms?
What when we fled amain, pursued and struck With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought The Deep to shelter us?
This Hell then seemed A refuge from those wounds.
Or when we lay Chained on the burning lake?
What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, And plunge us in the flames; or from above Should intermitted vengeance arm again His red right hand to plague us?
War, therefore, open or concealed, alike My voice dissuades; for what can force or guile With him, or who deceive his mind, whose eye Views all things at one view?
He from Heaven's height All these our motions vain sees and derides, Not more almighty to resist our might Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles.
Shall we, then, live thus vile-the race of Heaven Thus trampled, thus expelled, to suffer here Chains and these torments?
Better these than worse, By my advice; since fate inevitable Subdues us, and omnipotent decree, The Victor's will.
To suffer, as to do, Our strength is equal; nor the law unjust That so ordains.
This was at first resolved, If we were wise, against so great a foe Contending, and so doubtful what might fall.
I laugh when those who at the spear are bold And venturous, if that fail them, shrink, and fear What yet they know must follow-to endure Exile, or igominy, or bonds, or pain, The sentence of their Conqueror.
This is now Our doom; which if we can sustain and bear, Our Supreme Foe in time may much remit His anger, and perhaps, thus far removed, Not mind us not offending, satisfied With what is punished; whence these raging fires Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames.
Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's garb, Counselled ignoble ease and peaceful sloth, Not peace; and after him thus Mammon spake:" Either to disenthrone the King of Heaven We war, if war be best, or to regain Our own right lost.
Him to unthrone we then May hope, when everlasting Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife.
The former, vain to hope, argues as vain The latter; for what place can be for us Within Heaven's bound, unless Heaven's Lord supreme We overpower?
This must be our task In Heaven, this our delight.
How wearisome Eternity so spent in worship paid To whom we hate!
Our greatness will appear Then most conspicuous when great things of small, Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse, We can create, and in what place soe'er Thrive under evil, and work ease out of pain Through labour and endurance.
This deep world Of darkness do we dread?
How oft amidst Thick clouds and dark doth Heaven's all-ruling Sire Choose to reside, his glory unobscured, And with the majesty of darkness round Covers his throne, from whence deep thunders roar.
Mustering their rage, and Heaven resembles Hell!
As he our darkness, cannot we his light Imitate when we please?
This desert soil Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and gold; Nor want we skill or art from whence to raise Magnificence; and what can Heaven show more?
Our torments also may, in length of time, Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper; which must needs remove The sensible of pain.
All things invite To peaceful counsels, and the settled state Of order, how in safety best we may Compose our present evils, with regard Of what we are and where, dismissing quite All thoughts of war.
Which when Beelzebub perceived-than whom, Satan except, none higher sat-with grave Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed A pillar of state.
Deep on his front engraven Deliberation sat, and public care; And princely counsel in his face yet shone, Majestic, though in ruin.
Sage he stood With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look Drew audience and attention still as night Or summer's noontide air, while thus he spake:" Thrones and Imperial Powers, Offspring of Heaven, Ethereal Virtues!
or these titles now Must we renounce, and, changing style, be called Princes of Hell?
for so the popular vote Inclines-here to continue, and build up here A growing empire; doubtless!
For he, to be sure, In height or depth, still first and last will reign Sole king, and of his kingdom lose no part By our revolt, but over Hell extend His empire, and with iron sceptre rule Us here, as with his golden those in Heaven.
What sit we then projecting peace and war?
War hath determined us and foiled with loss Irreparable; terms of peace yet none Vouchsafed or sought; for what peace will be given To us enslaved, but custody severe, And stripes and arbitrary punishment Inflicted?
and what peace can we return, But, to our power, hostility and hate, Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though slow, Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice In doing what we most in suffering feel?
Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need With dangerous expedition to invade Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault or siege, Or ambush from the Deep.
What if we find Some easier enterprise?
Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to learn What creatures there inhabit, of what mould Or substance, how endued, and what their power And where their weakness: how attempted best, By force of subtlety.
This would surpass Common revenge, and interrupt his joy In our confusion, and our joy upraise In his disturbance; when his darling sons, Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall curse Their frail original, and faded bliss-Faded so soon!
Advise if this be worth Attempting, or to sit in darkness here Hatching vain empires.
But their spite still serves His glory to augment.
But, first, whom shall we send In search of this new World?
whom shall we find Sufficient?
who shall tempt with wandering feet The dark, unbottomed, infinite Abyss, And through the palpable obscure find out His uncouth way, or spread his airy flight, Upborne with indefatigable wings Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive The happy Isle?
What strength, what art, can then Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe, Through the strict senteries and stations thick Of Angels watching round?
Here he had need All circumspection: and we now no less Choice in our suffrage; for on whom we send The weight of all, and our last hope, relies.
This said, he sat; and expectation held His look suspense, awaiting who appeared To second, or oppose, or undertake The perilous attempt.
But all sat mute, Pondering the danger with deep thoughts; and each In other's countenance read his own dismay, Astonished.
With reason hath deep silence and demur Seized us, though undismayed.
Long is the way And hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.
Our prison strong, this huge convex of fire, Outrageous to devour, immures us round Ninefold; and gates of burning adamant, Barred over us, prohibit all egress.
These passed, if any pass, the void profound Of unessential Night receives him next, Wide-gaping, and with utter loss of being Threatens him, plunged in that abortive gulf.
If thence he scape, into whatever world, Or unknown region, what remains him less Than unknown dangers, and as hard escape?
But I should ill become this throne, O Peers, And this imperial sovereignty, adorned With splendour, armed with power, if aught proposed And judged of public moment in the shape Of difficulty or danger, could deter Me from attempting.
Wherefore do I assume These royalties, and not refuse to reign, Refusing to accept as great a share Of hazard as of honour, due alike To him who reigns, and so much to him due Of hazard more as he above the rest High honoured sits?
This enterprise None shall partake with me.
But they Dreaded not more th'adventure than his voice Forbidding; and at once with him they rose.
Their rising all at once was as the sound Of thunder heard remote.
Towards him they bend With awful reverence prone, and as a God Extol him equal to the Highest in Heaven.
Others, more mild, Retreated in a silent valley, sing With notes angelical to many a harp Their own heroic deeds, and hapless fall By doom of battle, and complain that Fate Free Virtue should enthrall to Force or Chance.
Their song was partial; but the harmony (What could it less when Spirits immortal sing?)
Suspended Hell, and took with ravishment The thronging audience.
Far off from these, a slow and silent stream, Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks Forthwith his former state and being forgets-Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.
Thus roving on In confused march forlorn, th'adventurous bands, With shuddering horror pale, and eyes aghast, Viewed first their lamentable lot, and found No rest.
At last appear Hell-bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof, And thrice threefold the gates; three folds were brass, Three iron, three of adamantine rock, Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire, Yet unconsumed.
Before the gates there sat On either side a formidable Shape.
The one seemed woman to the waist, and fair, But ended foul in many a scaly fold, Voluminous and vast-a serpent armed With mortal sting.
Satan was now at hand, and from his seat The monster moving onward came as fast With horrid strides; Hell trembled as he strode.
Through them I mean to pass, That be assured, without leave asked of thee.
Retire; or taste thy folly, and learn by proof, Hell-born, not to contend with Spirits of Heaven.
To whom the Goblin, full of wrath, replied:" Art thou that traitor Angel?
And reckon'st thou thyself with Spirits of Heaven Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here and scorn, Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more, Thy king and lord?
Back to thy punishment, False fugitive; and to thy speed add wings, Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before.
So spake the grisly Terror, and in shape, So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold, More dreadful and deform.
On th'other side, Incensed with indignation, Satan stood Unterrified, and like a comet burned, That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In th'arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war.
So frowned the mighty combatants that Hell Grew darker at their frown; so matched they stood; For never but once more was wither like To meet so great a foe.
And now great deeds Had been achieved, whereof all Hell had rung, Had not the snaky Sorceress, that sat Fast by Hell-gate and kept the fatal key, Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between.
What fury, O son, Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart Against thy father's head?
For him who sits above, and laughs the while At thee, ordained his drudge to execute Whate'er his wrath, which he calls justice, bids-His wrath, which one day will destroy ye both!
I know thee not, nor ever saw till now Sight more detestable than him and thee.
Meanwhile war arose, And fields were fought in Heaven: wherein remained (For what could else?)
to our Almighty Foe Clear victory; to our part loss and rout Through all the Empyrean.
Down they fell, Driven headlong from the pitch of Heaven, down Into this Deep; and in the general fall I also: at which time this powerful key Into my hands was given, with charge to keep These gates for ever shut, which none can pass Without my opening.
Pensive here I sat Alone; but long I sat not, till my womb, Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown, Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes.
I fled, and cried out Death!
Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed From all her caves, and back resounded Death!
But thou, O father, I forewarn thee, shun His deadly arrow; neither vainly hope To be invulnerable in those bright arms, Through tempered heavenly; for that mortal dint, Save he who reigns above, none can resist.
Be this, or aught Than this more secret, now designed, I haste To know; and, this once known, shall soon return, And bring ye to the place where thou and Death Shall dwell at ease, and up and down unseen Wing silently the buxom air, embalmed With odours.
There ye shall be fed and filled Immeasurably; all things shall be your prey.
He ceased; for both seemed highly pleased, and Death Grinned horrible a ghastly smile, to hear His famine should be filled, and blessed his maw Destined to that good hour.
Thou art my father, thou my author, thou My being gav'st me; whom should I obey But thee?
Thou wilt bring me soon To that new world of light and bliss, among The gods who live at ease, where I shall reign At thy right hand voluptuous, as beseems Thy daughter and thy darling, without end.
On a sudden open fly, With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, Th'infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook Of Erebus.
To whom these most adhere He rules a moment: Chaos umpire sits, And by decision more embroils the fray By which he reigns: next him, high arbiter, Chance governs all.
At last his sail-broad vans He spread for flight, and, in the surging smoke Uplifted, spurns the ground; thence many a league, As in a cloudy chair, ascending rides Audacious; but, that seat soon failing, meets A vast vacuity.
All unawares, Fluttering his pennons vain, plumb-down he drops Ten thousand fathom deep, and to this hour Down had been falling, had not, by ill chance, The strong rebuff of some tumultuous cloud, Instinct with fire and nitre, hurried him As many miles aloft.
That fury stayed-Quenched in a boggy Syrtis, neither sea, Nor good dry land-nigh foundered, on he fares, Treading the crude consistence, half on foot, Half flying; behoves him now both oar and sail.
At length a universal hubbub wild Of stunning sounds, and voices all confused, Borne through the hollow dark, assaults his ear With loudest vehemence.
With him enthroned Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of things, The consort of his reign; and by them stood Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name Of Demogorgon; Rumour next, and Chance, And Tumult, and Confusion, all embroiled, And Discord with a thousand various mouths.
Direct my course: Directed, no mean recompense it brings To your behoof, if I that region lost, All usurpation thence expelled, reduce To her original darkness and your sway (Which is my present journey), and once more Erect the standard there of ancient Night.
Yours be th'advantage all, mine the revenge!
Thus Satan; and him thus the Anarch old, With faltering speech and visage incomposed, Answered: " I know thee, stranger, who thou art-*** That mighty leading Angel, who of late Made head against Heaven's King, though overthrown.
I saw and heard; for such a numerous host Fled not in silence through the frighted Deep, With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded; and Heaven-gates Poured out by millions her victorious bands, Pursuing.
If that way be your walk, you have not far; So much the nearer danger.
Go, and speed; Havoc, and spoil, and ruin, are my gain.
So he with difficulty and labour hard Moved on, with difficulty and labour he; But, he once passed, soon after, when Man fell, Strange alteration!
But now at last the sacred influence Of light appears, and from the walls of Heaven Shoots far into the bosom of dim Night A glimmering dawn.
Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge, Accursed, and in a cursed hour, he hies.
Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven firstborn, Or of the Eternal coeternal beam May I express thee unblam'd?
since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear " st thou rather pure ethereal stream, Whose fountain who shall tell?
before the sun, Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest *** The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite.
So much the rather thou, celestial Light, Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate; there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.
Him God beholding from his prospect high, Wherein past, present, future, he beholds, Thus to his only Son foreseeing spake.
Only begotten Son, seest thou what rage Transports our Adversary?
whom no bounds Prescrib'd no bars of Hell, nor all the chains Heap'd on him there, nor yet the main abyss Wide interrupt, can hold; so bent he seems On desperate revenge, that shall redound Upon his own rebellious head.
ingrate, he had of me All he could have; I made him just and right, Sufficient to have stood, though free to fall.
Such I created all the ethereal Powers And Spirits, both them who stood, and them who fail'd; Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
Not free, what proof could they have given sincere Of true allegiance, constant faith or love, Where only what they needs must do appear'd, Not what they would?
what praise could they receive?
What pleasure I from such obedience paid, When will and reason (reason also is choice) Useless and vain, of freedom both despoil'd, Made passive both, had serv'd necessity, Not me?
Thus while God spake, ambrosial fragrance fill'd All Heaven, and in the blessed Spirits elect Sense of new joy ineffable diffus'd.
Beyond compare the Son of God was seen Most glorious; in him all his Father shone Substantially express'd; and in his face Divine compassion visibly appear'd, Love without end, and without measure grace, Which uttering, thus he to his Father spake.
For should Man finally be lost, should Man, Thy creature late so lov'd, thy youngest son, Fall circumvented thus by fraud, though join'd With his own folly?
that be from thee far, That far be from thee, Father, who art judge Of all things made, and judgest only right.
Or shall the Adversary thus obtain His end, and frustrate thine?
shall he fulfill His malice, and thy goodness bring to nought, Or proud return, though to his heavier doom, Yet with revenge accomplish'd, and to Hell Draw after him the whole race of mankind, By him corrupted?
or wilt thou thyself Abolish thy creation, and unmake For him, what for thy glory thou hast made?
So should thy goodness and thy greatness both Be question'd and blasphem'd without defence.
To whom the great Creator thus replied.
O son, in whom my soul hath chief delight, Son of my bosom, Son who art alone.
To prayer, repentance, and obedience due, Though but endeavour'd with sincere intent, Mine ear shall not be slow, mine eye not shut.
And I will place within them as a guide, My umpire Conscience; whom if they will hear, Light after light, well us'd, they shall attain, And to the end, persisting, safe arrive.
This my long sufferance, and my day of grace, They who neglect and scorn, shall never taste; But hard be harden'd, blind be blinded more, That they may stumble on, and deeper fall; And none but such from mercy I exclude.
Say, heavenly Powers, where shall we find such love?
Which of you will be mortal, to redeem Man's mortal crime, and just the unjust to save?
Dwells in all Heaven charity so dear?
And silence was in Heaven: $ on Man's behalf He ask'd, but all the heavenly quire stood mute, Patron or intercessour none appear'd, Much less that durst upon his own head draw The deadly forfeiture, and ransom set.
And now without redemption all mankind Must have been lost, adjudg'd to Death and Hell By doom severe, had not the Son of God, In whom the fulness dwells of love divine, His dearest mediation thus renew'd.
Father, thy word is past, Man shall find grace; And shall grace not find means, that finds her way, The speediest of thy winged messengers, To visit all thy creatures, and to all Comes unprevented, unimplor'd, unsought?
Under his gloomy power I shall not long Lie vanquished.
Death his death's wound shall then receive, and stoop Inglorious, of his mortal sting disarmed; I through the ample air in triumph high Shall lead Hell captive maugre Hell, and show The powers of darkness bound.
His words here ended; but his meek aspect Silent yet spake, and breathed immortal love To mortal men, above which only shone Filial obedience: as a sacrifice Glad to be offered, he attends the will Of his great Father.
Admiration seized All Heaven, what this might mean, and whither tend, Wondering; but soon th'Almighty thus replied.
O thou in Heaven and Earth the only peace Found out for mankind under wrath, O thou My sole complacence!
Well thou know'st how dear To me are all my works; nor Man the least, Though last created, that for him I spare Thee from my bosom and right hand, to save, By losing thee a while, the whole race lost.
As in him perish all men, so in thee, As from a second root, shall be restored As many as are restored, without thee none.
His crime makes guilty all his sons; thy merit, Imputed, shall absolve them who renounce Their own both righteous and unrighteous deeds, And live in thee transplanted, and from thee Receive new life.
So Man, as is most just, Shall satisfy for Man, be judged and die, And dying rise, and rising with him raise His brethren, ransomed with his own dear life.
So heavenly love shall outdo hellish hate, Giving to death, and dying to redeem, So dearly to redeem what hellish hate So easily destroyed, and still destroys In those who, when they may, accept not grace.
Nor shalt thou, by descending to assume Man's nature, lessen or degrade thine own.
Then, all thy saints assembled, thou shalt judge Bad Men and Angels; they, arraigned, shall sink Beneath thy sentence; Hell, her numbers full, Thenceforth shall be for ever shut.
Mean while The world shall burn, and from her ashes spring New Heaven and Earth, wherein the just shall dwell, And, after all their tribulations long, See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, With joy and peace triumphing, and fair truth.
Then thou thy regal scepter shalt lay by, For regal scepter then no more shall need, God shall be all in all.
But, all ye Gods, Adore him, who to compass all this dies; Adore the Son, and honour him as me.
O unexampled love, Love no where to be found less than Divine!
Hail, Son of God, Saviour of Men!
Thy name Shall be the copious matter of my song Henceforth, and never shall my heart thy praise Forget, nor from thy Father's praise disjoin.
Thus they in Heaven, above the starry sphere, Their happy hours in joy and hymning spent.
These stairs were such as whereon Jacob saw Angels ascending and descending, bands Of guardians bright, when he from Esau fled To Padan-Aram, in the field of Luz Dreaming by night under the open sky And waking cried, This is the gate of Heaven.
Satan from hence, now on the lower stair, That scaled by steps of gold to Heaven-gate, Looks down with wonder at the sudden view Of all this world at once.
As when a scout, Through dark?
There lands the Fiend, a spot like which perhaps Astronomer in the sun's lucent orb Through his glazed optick tube yet never saw.
Glad was the Spirit impure, as now in hope To find who might direct his wandering flight To Paradise, the happy seat of Man, His journey's end and our beginning woe.
That spot, to which I point, is Paradise, Adam's abode; those lofty shades, his bower.
Thy way thou canst not miss, me mine requires.
O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud, Then when the Dragon, put to second rout, Came furious down to be revenged on men, Woe to the inhabitants on earth!
Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad; Sometimes towards Heaven, and the full-blazing sun, Which now sat high in his meridian tower: Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began.
O thou, that, with surpassing glory crowned, Lookest from thy sole dominion like the God Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, Of Sun!
to tell thee how I hate thy beams, That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere; Till pride and worse ambition threw me down Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless King: Ah, wherefore!
he deserved no such return From me, whom he created what I was In that bright eminence, and with his good Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise, The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks, How due!
Yet why not some other Power As great might have aspired, and me, though mean, Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within Or from without, to all temptations armed.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse, But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate, To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
which way shall I fly Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell; And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Still threatening to devour me opens wide, To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
O, then, at last relent: Is there no place Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced With other promises and other vaunts Than to submit, boasting I could subdue The Omnipotent.
they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vain, Under what torments inwardly I groan, While they adore me on the throne of Hell.
With diadem and scepter high advanced, The lower still I fall, only supreme In misery: Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain, By act of grace, my former state; how soon Would highth recall high thoughts, how soon unsay What feigned submission swore?
Ease would recant Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow, Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep: Which would but lead me to a worse relapse And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far From granting he, as I from begging, peace; All hope excluded thus, behold, in stead Mankind created, and for him this world.
So farewell, hope; and with hope farewell, fear; Farewell, remorse!
all good to me is lost; Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold, By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign; As Man ere long, and this new world, shall know.
Thus while he spake, each passion dimmed his face Thrice changed with pale, ire, envy, and despair; Which marred his borrowed visage, and betrayed Him counterfeit, if any eye beheld.
For heavenly minds from such distempers foul Are ever clear.
Yet higher than their tops The verdurous wall of Paradise upsprung;
Now to the ascent of that steep savage hill Satan had journeyed on, pensive and slow; But further way found none, so thick entwined, As one continued brake, the undergrowth Of shrubs and tangling bushes had perplexed All path of man or beast that passed that way.
One gate there only was, and that looked east On the other side: which when the arch-felon saw, Due entrance he disdained; and, in contempt, At one flight bound high over-leaped all bound Of hill or highest wall, and sheer within Lights on his feet.
So little knows Any, but God alone, to value right The good before him, but perverts best things To worst abuse, or to their meanest use.
The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs, Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune The trembling leaves, while universal Pan, Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, Led on the eternal Spring.
So passed they naked on, nor shunned the sight Of God or Angel; for they thought no ill: So hand in hand they passed, the loveliest pair, That ever since in love's embraces met; Adam the goodliest man of men since born His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve.
what do mine eyes with grief behold!
And should I at your harmless innocence Melt, as I do, yet publick reason just, Honour and empire with revenge enlarged, By conquering this new world, compels me now To do what else, though damned, I should abhor.
So spake the Fiend, and with necessity, The tyrant's plea, excused his devilish deeds.
To whom thus Eve replied.
O thou for whom And from whom I was formed, flesh of thy flesh, And without whom am to no end, my guide And head!
what thou hast said is just and right.
For we to him indeed all praises owe, And daily thanks; I chiefly, who enjoy So far the happier lot, enjoying thee Pre-eminent by so much odds, while thou Like consort to thyself canst no where find.
That day I oft remember, when from sleep I first awaked, and found myself reposed Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
What could I do, But follow straight, invisibly thus led?
Till I espied thee, fair indeed and tall, Under a platane; yet methought less fair, Less winning soft, less amiably mild, Than that smooth watery image: Back I turned; Thou following cryedst aloud,'Return, fair Eve;'Whom flyest thou?
Sight hateful, sight tormenting!
thus these two, Imparadised in one another's arms, The happier Eden, shall enjoy their fill Of bliss on bliss; while I to Hell am thrust, Where neither joy nor love, but fierce desire, Among our other torments not the least, Still unfulfilled with pain of longing pines.
Yet let me not forget what I have gained From their own mouths: All is not theirs, it seems; One fatal tree there stands, of knowledge called, Forbidden them to taste: Knowledge forbidden Suspicious, reasonless.
Why should their Lord Envy them that?
And do they only stand By ignorance?
Is that their happy state, The proof of their obedience and their faith?
O fair foundation laid whereon to build Their ruin!
Live while ye may, Yet happy pair; enjoy, till I return, Short pleasures, for long woes are to succeed!
Betwixt these rocky pillars Gabriel sat, Chief of the angelick guards, awaiting night; About him exercised heroick games The unarmed youth of Heaven, but nigh at hand Celestial armoury, shields, helms, and spears, Hung high with diamond flaming, and with gold.
Thither came Uriel, gliding through the even On a sun-beam, swift as a shooting star In autumn thwarts the night, when vapours fired Impress the air, and shows the mariner From what point of his compass to beware Impetuous winds: He thus began in haste.
Gabriel, to thee thy course by lot hath given Charge and strict watch, that to this happy place No evil thing approach or enter in.
To whom the winged warriour thus returned.
But if within the circuit of these walks, In whatsoever shape he lurk, of whom Thou tellest, by morrow dawning I shall know.
To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorned My Author and Disposer, what thou bidst Unargued I obey: So God ordains; God is thy law, thou mine: To know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise.
With thee conversing I forget all time; All seasons, and their change, all please alike.
But wherefore all night long shine these?
for whom This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?
To whom our general ancestor replied.
oft in bands While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonick number joined, their songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven.
In shadier bower More sacred and sequestered, though but feigned, Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor Nymph Nor Faunus haunted.
too like In sad event, when to the unwiser son Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she ensnared Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged On him who had stole Jove's authentick fire.
But thou hast promised from us two a race To fill the earth, who shall with us extol Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep.
Our Maker bids encrease; who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man?
Hail, wedded Love, mysterious law, true source Of human offspring, sole propriety In Paradise of all things common else!
By thee adulterous Lust was driven from men Among the bestial herds to range; by thee Founded in reason, loyal, just, and pure, Relations dear, and all the charities Of father, son, and brother, first were known.
Far be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual fountain of domestick sweets, Whose bed is undefiled and chaste pronounced, Present, or past, as saints and patriarchs used.
These, lulled by nightingales, embracing slept, And on their naked limbs the flowery roof Showered roses, which the morn repaired.
Sleep on, Blest pair; and O! yet happiest, if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more.
Now had night measured with her shadowy cone Half way up hill this vast sublunar vault, And from their ivory port the Cherubim, Forth issuing at the accustomed hour, stood armed To their night watches in warlike parade; When Gabriel to his next in power thus spake.
Uzziel, half these draw off, and coast the south With strictest watch; these other wheel the north; Our circuit meets full west.
As flame they part, Half wheeling to the shield, half to the spear.
From these, two strong and subtle Spirits he called That near him stood, and gave them thus in charge.
Ithuriel and Zephon, with winged speed Search through this garden, leave unsearched no nook; But chiefly where those two fair creatures lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep, secure of harm.
This evening from the sun's decline arrived, Who tells of some infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?)
escaped The bars of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such, where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring.
Him thus intent Ithuriel with his spear Touched lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: Up he starts Discovered and surprised.
As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous powder, laid Fit for the tun some magazine to store Against a rumoured war, the smutty grain, With sudden blaze diffused, inflames the air; So started up in his own shape the Fiend.
Back stept those two fair Angels, half amazed So sudden to behold the grisly king; Yet thus, unmoved with fear, accost him soon.
Which of those rebel Spirits adjudged to Hell Comest thou, escaped thy prison?
and, transformed, Why sat'st thou like an enemy in wait, Here watching at the head of these that sleep?
Know ye not then said Satan, filled with scorn, Know ye not me?
ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soar: Not to know me argues yourselves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or, if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain?
To whom thus Zephon, answering scorn with scorn.
Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminished brightness to be known, As when thou stoodest in Heaven upright and pure; That glory then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee; and thou resemblest now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foul.
But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm.
If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the sender, not the sent, Or all at once; more glory will be won, Or less be lost.
Thy fear, said Zephon bold, Will save us trial what the least can do Single against thee wicked, and thence weak.
The Fiend replied not, overcome with rage; But, like a proud steed reined, went haughty on, Champing his iron curb: To strive or fly He held it vain; awe from above had quelled His heart, not else dismayed.
Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, and closing stood in squadron joined, A waiting next command.
To whom their Chief, Gabriel, from the front thus called aloud.
He scarce had ended, when those two approached, And brief related whom they brought, where found, How busied, in what form and posture couched.
To whom with stern regard thus Gabriel spake.
To whom thus Satan with contemptuous brow.
thou hadst in Heaven the esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question asked Puts me in doubt.
Lives there who loves his pain!
Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomed!
Let him surer bar His iron gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: Thus much what was asked.
The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harm.
The warlike Angel moved, Disdainfully half smiling, thus replied.
So judge thou still, presumptuous!
till the wrath, Which thou incurrest by flying, meet thy flight Sevenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provoked.
But wherefore thou alone?
wherefore with thee Came not all hell broke loose?
or thou than they Less hardy to endure?
The first in flight from pain!
hadst thou alleged To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive.
To which the Fiend thus answered, frowning stern.
Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel!
well thou knowest I stood Thy fiercest, when in battle to thy aid The blasting vollied thunder made all speed, And seconded thy else not dreaded spear.
To say and straight unsay, pretending first Wise to fly pain, professing next the spy, Argues no leader but a liear traced, Satan, and couldst thou faithful add?
O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profaned!
Army of Fiends, fit body to fit head.
Was this your discipline and faith engaged, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegiance to the acknowledged Power supreme?
And thou, sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more than thou Once fawned, and cringed, and servily adored Heaven's awful Monarch?
wherefore, but in hope To dispossess him, and thyself to reign?
But mark what I arreed thee now, Avant; Fly neither whence thou fledst!
If from this hour Within these hallowed limits thou appear, Back to the infernal pit I drag thee chained, And seal thee so, as henceforth not to scorn The facile gates of Hell too slightly barred.
So threatened he; but Satan to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage replied.
Then when I am thy captive talk of chains, Proud limitary Cherub!
but ere then Far heavier load thyself expect to feel From my prevailing arm, though Heaven's King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers, Us'd to the yoke, drawest his triumphant wheels In progress through the road of Heaven star-paved.
Satan, I know thy strength, and thou knowest mine; Neither our own, but given: What folly then To boast what arms can do?
since thine no more Than Heaven permits, nor mine, though doubled now To trample thee as mire: For proof look up, And read thy lot in yon celestial sign; Where thou art weighed, and shown how light, how weak, If thou resist.
The Fiend looked up, and knew His mounted scale aloft: Nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night.
Awake, My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight!
Awake: The morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, How nature paints her colours, how the bee Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.
Such whispering waked her, but with startled eye On Adam, whom embracing, thus she spake.
O sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My glory, my perfection!
Is knowledge so despised?
So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had plucked; the pleasant savoury smell So quickened appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste.
Thus Eve her night Related, and thus Adam answered sad.
Best image of myself, and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung, I fear; Yet evil whence?
in thee can harbour none, Created pure.
Oft in her absence mimick Fancy wakes To imitate her; but, misjoining shapes, Wild work produces oft, and most in dreams; Ill matching words and deeds long past or late.
Some such resemblances, methinks, I find Of our last evening's talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad.
Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unreproved, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhor to dream, Waking thou never will consent to do.
So all was cleared, and to the field they haste.
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty!
Thine this universal frame, Thus wonderous fair; Thyself how wonderous then!
Unspeakable, who sitst above these heavens To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven On Earth join all ye Creatures to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownest the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest, And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fallest.
Moon, that now meetest the orient sun, now flyest, With the fixed Stars, fixed in their orb that flies; And ye five other wandering Fires, that move In mystick dance not without song, resound His praise, who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud; and, wave your tops, ye Pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living Souls: Ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us only good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark!
So prayed they innocent, and to their thoughts Firm peace recovered soon, and wonted calm.
Them thus employed beheld With pity Heaven's high King, and to him called Raphael, the sociable Spirit, that deigned To travel with Tobias, and secured His marriage with the seventimes-wedded maid.
Raphael, said he, thou hearest what stir on Earth Satan, from Hell'scaped through the darksome gulf, Hath raised in Paradise; and how disturbed This night the human pair; how he designs In them at once to ruin all mankind.
no, for that shall be withstood; But by deceit and lies: This let him know, Lest, wilfully transgressing, he pretend Surprisal, unadmonished, unforewarned.
From hence no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Star interposed, however small he sees, Not unconformed to other shining globes, Earth, and the garden of God, with cedars crowned Above all hills.
As when by night the glass Of Galileo, less assured, observes Imagined lands and regions in the moon: Or pilot, from amidst the Cyclades Delos or Samos first appearing, kens A cloudy spot.
Like Maia's son he stood, And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled The circuit wide.
Straight knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high, in honour rise; For on some message high they guessed him bound.
Haste hither, Eve, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another morn Risen on mid-noon; some great behest from Heaven To us perhaps he brings, and will vouchsafe This day to be our guest.
Adam, earth's hallowed mould, Of God inspired!
Nearer his presence Adam, though not awed, Yet with submiss approach and reverence meek, As to a superiour nature bowing low, Thus said.
Whom thus the angelick Virtue answered mild.
Adam, I therefore came; nor art thou such Created, or such place hast here to dwell, As may not oft invite, though Spirits of Heaven, To visit thee; lead on then where thy bower O'ershades; for these mid-hours, till evening rise, I have at will.
On whom the Angel Hail Bestowed, the holy salutation used Long after to blest Mary, second Eve.
A while discourse they hold; No fear lest dinner cool; when thus began Our author.
Nor doth the moon no nourishment exhale From her moist continent to higher orbs.
The sun that light imparts to all, receives From all his alimental recompence In humid exhalations, and at even Sups with the ocean.
Mean while at table Eve Ministered naked, and their flowing cups With pleasant liquours crowned: O innocence Deserving Paradise!
if ever, then, Then had the sons of God excuse to have been Enamoured at that sight; but in those hearts Love unlibidinous reigned, nor jealousy Was understood, the injured lover's hell.
Wonder not then, what God for you saw good If I refuse not, but convert, as you To proper substance.
Mean while enjoy Your fill what happiness this happy state Can comprehend, incapable of more.
To whom the patriarch of mankind replied.
O favourable Spirit, propitious guest, Well hast thou taught the way that might direct Our knowledge, and the scale of nature set From center to circumference; whereon, In contemplation of created things, By steps we may ascend to God.
But say, What meant that caution joined, If ye be found Obedient?
Can we want obedience then To him, or possibly his love desert, Who formed us from the dust and placed us here Full to the utmost measure of what bliss Human desires can seek or apprehend?
Son of Heaven and Earth, Attend!
That thou art happy, owe to God; That thou continuest such, owe to thyself, That is, to thy obedience; therein stand.
This was that caution given thee; be advised.
To whom our great progenitor.
Thus Adam made request; and Raphael, After short pause assenting, thus began.
High matter thou enjoinest me, O prime of men, Sad task and hard: For how shall I relate To human sense the invisible exploits Of warring Spirits?
how, without remorse, The ruin of so many glorious once And perfect while they stood?
how last unfold The secrets of another world, perhaps Not lawful to reveal?
Thus when in orbs Of circuit inexpressible they stood, Orb within orb, the Father Infinite, By whom in bliss imbosomed sat the Son, Amidst as from a flaming mount, whose top Brightness had made invisible, thus spake.
Hear, all ye Angels, progeny of light, Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers; Hear my decree, which unrevoked shall stand.
So spake the Omnipotent, and with his words All seemed well pleased; all seemed, but were not all.
On flowers reposed, and with fresh flowerets crowned, They eat, they drink, and in communion sweet Quaff immortality and joy, secure Of surfeit, where full measure only bounds Excess, before the all-bounteous King, who showered With copious hand, rejoicing in their joy.
Sleepest thou, Companion dear?
What sleep can close Thy eye-lids?
and rememberest what decree Of yesterday, so late hath passed the lips Of Heaven's Almighty.
Thou to me thy thoughts Wast wont, I mine to thee was wont to impart; Both waking we were one; how then can now Thy sleep dissent?
New laws thou seest imposed; New laws from him who reigns, new minds may raise In us who serve, new counsels to debate What doubtful may ensue: More in this place To utter is not safe.
Let us advise, and to this hazard draw With speed what force is left, and all employ In our defence; lest unawares we lose This our high place, our sanctuary, our hill.
To whom the Son with calm aspect and clear, Lightning divine, ineffable, serene, Made answer.
So spake the Son; but Satan, with his Powers, Far was advanced on winged speed; an host Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dew-drops, which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.
but double how endured, To one, and to his image now proclaimed?
But what if better counsels might erect Our minds, and teach us to cast off this yoke?
Will ye submit your necks, and choose to bend The supple knee?
Ye will not, if I trust To know ye right, or if ye know yourselves Natives and sons of Heaven possessed before By none; and if not equal all, yet free, Equally free; for orders and degrees Jar not with liberty, but well consist.
Who can in reason then, or right, assume Monarchy over such as live by right His equals, if in power and splendour less, In freedom equal?
or can introduce Law and edict on us, who without law Err not?
much less for this to be our Lord, And look for adoration, to the abuse Of those imperial titles, which assert Our being ordained to govern, not to serve.
Thus far his bold discourse without controul Had audience; when among the Seraphim Abdiel, than whom none with more zeal adored The Deity, and divine commands obeyed, Stood up, and in a flame of zeal severe The current of his fury thus opposed.
O argument blasphemous, false, and proud!
Words which no ear ever to hear in Heaven Expected, least of all from thee, Ingrate, In place thyself so high above thy peers.
Canst thou with impious obloquy condemn The just decree of God, pronounced and sworn, That to his only Son, by right endued With regal scepter, every soul in Heaven Shall bend the knee, and in that honour due Confess him rightful King?
unjust, thou sayest, Flatly unjust, to bind with laws the free, And equal over equals to let reign, One over all with unsucceeded power.
Shalt thou give law to God?
shalt thou dispute With him the points of liberty, who made Thee what thou art, and formed the Powers of Heaven Such as he pleased, and circumscribed their being?
Yet, by experience taught, we know how good, And of our good and of our dignity How provident he is; how far from thought To make us less, bent rather to exalt Our happy state, under one head more near United.
But to grant it thee unjust, That equal over equals monarch reign: Thyself, though great and glorious, dost thou count, Or all angelick nature joined in one, Equal to him begotten Son?
Cease then this impious rage, And tempt not these; but hasten to appease The incensed Father, and the incensed Son, While pardon may be found in time besought.
So spake the fervent Angel; but his zeal None seconded, as out of season judged, Or singular and rash: Whereat rejoiced The Apostate, and, more haughty, thus replied.
That we were formed then sayest thou?
and the work Of secondary hands, by task transferred From Father to his Son?
Doctrine which we would know whence learned: who saw When this creation was?
rememberest thou Thy making, while the Maker gave thee being?
We know no time when we were not as now; Know none before us, self-begot, self-raised By our own quickening power, when fatal course Had circled his full orb, the birth mature Of this our native Heaven, ethereal sons.
Our puissance is our own; our own right hand Shall teach us highest deeds, by proof to try Who is our equal: Then thou shalt behold Whether by supplication we intend Address, and to begirt the almighty throne Beseeching or besieging.
This report, These tidings carry to the anointed King; And fly, ere evil intercept thy flight.
He said; and, as the sound of waters deep, Hoarse murmur echoed to his words applause Through the infinite host; nor less for that The flaming Seraph fearless, though alone Encompassed round with foes, thus answered bold.
O alienate from God, O Spirit accursed, Forsaken of all good!
Well thou didst advise; Yet not for thy advice or threats I fly These wicked tents devoted, lest the wrath Impendent, raging into sudden flame, Distinguish not: For soon expect to feel His thunder on thy head, devouring fire.
Then who created thee lamenting learn, When who can uncreate thee thou shalt know.
From amidst them forth he passed, Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained Superiour, nor of violence feared aught; And, with retorted scorn, his back he turned On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed.
All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued, Through Heaven's wide champain held his way; till Morn, Waked by the circling Hours, with rosy hand Unbarred the gates of light.
On to the sacred hill They led him high applauded, and present Before the seat supreme; from whence a voice, From midst a golden cloud, thus mild was heard.
that such resemblance of the Highest Should yet remain, where faith and realty Remain not: Wherefore should not strength and might There fail where virtue fails, or weakest prove Where boldest, though to fight unconquerable?
So pondering, and from his armed peers Forth stepping opposite, half-way he met His daring foe, at this prevention more Incensed, and thus securely him defied.
Whom the grand foe, with scornful eye askance, Thus answered.
Ill for thee, but in wished hour Of my revenge, first sought for, thou returnest From flight, seditious Angel!
Such hast thou armed, the minstrelsy of Heaven, Servility with freedom to contend, As both their deeds compared this day shall prove.
To whom in brief thus Abdiel stern replied.
still thou errest, nor end wilt find Of erring, from the path of truth remote: Unjustly thou depravest it with the name Of servitude, to serve whom God ordains, Or Nature: God and Nature bid the same, When he who rules is worthiest, and excels Them whom he governs.
This is servitude, To serve the unwise, or him who hath rebelled Against his worthier, as thine now serve thee, Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled; Yet lewdly darest our ministring upbraid.
Reign thou in Hell, thy kingdom; let me serve In Heaven God ever blest, and his divine Behests obey, worthiest to be obeyed; Yet chains in Hell, not realms, expect: Mean while From me returned, as erst thou saidst, from flight, This greeting on thy impious crest receive.
So under fiery cope together rushed Both battles main, with ruinous assault And inextinguishable rage.
All Heaven Resounded; and had Earth been then, all Earth Had to her center shook.
At his approach The great Arch-Angel from his warlike toil Surceased, and glad, as hoping here to end Intestine war in Heaven, the arch-foe subdued Or captive dragged in chains, with hostile frown And visage all inflamed first thus began.
how hast thou instilled Thy malice into thousands, once upright And faithful, now proved false!
But think not here To trouble holy rest; Heaven casts thee out From all her confines.
Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.
Hence then, and evil go with thee along, Thy offspring, to the place of evil, Hell; Thou and thy wicked crew!
there mingle broils, Ere this avenging sword begin thy doom, Or some more sudden vengeance, winged from God, Precipitate thee with augmented pain.
So spake the Prince of Angels; to whom thus The Adversary.
Nor think thou with wind Of aery threats to awe whom yet with deeds Thou canst not.
Hast thou turned the least of these To flight, or if to fall, but that they rise Unvanquished, easier to transact with me That thou shouldst hope, imperious, and with threats To chase me hence?
They ended parle, and both addressed for fight Unspeakable; for who, though with the tongue Of Angels, can relate, or to what things Liken on earth conspicuous, that may lift Human imagination to such highth Of Godlike power?
for likest Gods they seemed, Stood they or moved, in stature, motion, arms, Fit to decide the empire of great Heaven.
Nor stood unmindful Abdiel to annoy The atheist crew, but with redoubled blow Ariel, and Arioch, and the violence Of Ramiel scorched and blasted, overthrew.
For strength from truth divided, and from just, Illaudable, nought merits but dispraise And ignominy; yet to glory aspires Vain-glorious, and through infamy seeks fame: Therefore eternal silence be their doom.
O now in danger tried, now known in arms Not to be overpowered, Companions dear, Found worthy not of liberty alone, Too mean pretence!
but what we more affect, Honour, dominion, glory, and renown; Who have sustained one day in doubtful fight, (And if one day, why not eternal days?)
What Heaven's Lord had powerfullest to send Against us from about his throne, and judged Sufficient to subdue us to his will, But proves not so: Then fallible, it seems, Of future we may deem him, though till now Omniscient thought.
He sat; and in the assembly next upstood Nisroch, of Principalities the prime; As one he stood escaped from cruel fight, Sore toiled, his riven arms to havock hewn, And cloudy in aspect thus answering spake.
Sense of pleasure we may well Spare out of life perhaps, and not repine, But live content, which is the calmest life: But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and, excessive, overturns All patience.
He, who therefore can invent With what more forcible we may offend Our yet unwounded enemies, or arm Ourselves with like defence, to me deserves No less than for deliverance what we owe.
Whereto with look composed Satan replied.
Not uninvented that, which thou aright Believest so main to our success, I bring.
Nor long shall be our labour; yet ere dawn, Effect shall end our wish.
Mean while revive; Abandon fear; to strength and counsel joined Think nothing hard, much less to be despaired.
He ended, and his words their drooping cheer Enlightened, and their languished hope revived.
So all ere day-spring, under conscious night, Secret they finished, and in order set, With silent circumspection, unespied.
So warned he them, aware themselves, and soon In order, quit of all impediment; Instant without disturb they took alarm, And onward moved embattled: When behold!
Not distant far with heavy pace the foe Approaching gross and huge, in hollow cube Training his devilish enginery, impaled On every side with shadowing squadrons deep, To hide the fraud.
At interview both stood A while; but suddenly at head appeared Satan, and thus was heard commanding loud.
Vanguard, to right and left the front unfold; That all may see who hate us, how we seek Peace and composure, and with open breast Stand ready to receive them, if they like Our overture; and turn not back perverse: But that I doubt; however witness, Heaven!
Heaven, witness thou anon!
while we discharge Freely our part: ye, who appointed stand Do as you have in charge, and briefly touch What we propound, and loud that all may hear!
Satan beheld their plight, And to his mates thus in derision called.
why come not on these victors proud Ere while they fierce were coming; and when we, To entertain them fair with open front And breast, (what could we more?)
To whom thus Belial, in like gamesome mood.
Forthwith (behold the excellence, the power, Which God hath in his mighty Angels placed!)
The rest, in imitation, to like arms Betook them, and the neighbouring hills uptore: So hills amid the air encountered hills, Hurled to and fro with jaculation dire; That under ground they fought in dismal shade; Infernal noise!
Effulgence of my glory, Son beloved, Son, in whose face invisible is beheld Visibly, what by Deity I am; And in whose hand what by decree I do, Second Omnipotence!
Two days are therefore past, the third is thine; For thee I have ordained it; and thus far Have suffered, that the glory may be thine Of ending this great war, since none but Thou Can end it.
He said, and on his Son with rays direct Shone full; he all his Father full expressed Ineffably into his face received; And thus the Filial Godhead answering spake.
Then shall thy Saints unmixed, and from the impure Far separate, circling thy holy mount, Unfeigned Halleluiahs to thee sing, Hymns of high praise, and I among them Chief.
So said, he, o'er his scepter bowing, rose From the right hand of Glory where he sat; And the third sacred morn began to shine, Dawning through Heaven.
Before him Power Divine his way prepared; At his command the uprooted hills retired Each to his place; they heard his voice, and went Obsequious; Heaven his wonted face renewed, And with fresh flowerets hill and valley smiled.
This saw his hapless foes, but stood obdured, And to rebellious fight rallied their Powers, Insensate, hope conceiving from despair.
In heavenly Spirits could such perverseness dwell?
But to convince the proud what signs avail, Or wonders move the obdurate to relent?
So spake the Son, and into terrour changed His countenance too severe to be beheld, And full of wrath bent on his enemies.
At once the Four spread out their starry wings With dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbs Of his fierce chariot rolled, as with the sound Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host.
He on his impious foes right onward drove, Gloomy as night; under his burning wheels The stedfast empyrean shook throughout, All but the throne itself of God.
Hell heard the unsufferable noise, Hell saw Heaven ruining from Heaven, and would have fled Affrighted; but strict Fate had cast too deep Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound.
Disburdened Heaven rejoiced, and soon repaired Her mural breach, returning whence it rolled.
But listen not to his temptations, warn Thy weaker; let it profit thee to have heard, By terrible example, the reward Of disobedience; firm they might have stood, Yet fell; remember, and fear to transgress.
Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine Following, above the Olympian hill I soar, Above the flight of Pegasean wing!
But drive far off the barbarous dissonance Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears To rapture, till the savage clamour drowned Both harp and voice; nor could the Muse defend Her son.
So fail not thou, who thee implores: For thou art heavenly, she an empty dream.
Great things, and full of wonder in our ears, Far differing from this world, thou hast revealed, Divine interpreter!
Thus Adam his illustrious guest besought: And thus the Godlike Angel answered mild.
This also thy request, with caution asked, Obtain; though to recount almighty works What words or tongue of Seraph can suffice, Or heart of man suffice to comprehend?
But knowledge is as food, and needs no less Her temperance over appetite, to know In measure what the mind may well contain; Oppresses else with surfeit, and soon turns Wisdom to folly, as nourishment to wind.
Mean while inhabit lax, ye Powers of Heaven; And thou my Word, begotten Son, by thee This I perform; speak thou, and be it done!
My overshadowing Spirit and Might with thee I send along; ride forth, and bid the Deep Within appointed bounds be Heaven and Earth; Boundless the Deep, because I Am who fill Infinitude, nor vacuous the space.
Though I, uncircumscribed myself, retire, And put not forth my goodness, which is free To act or not, Necessity and Chance Approach not me, and what I will is Fate.
So spake the Almighty, and to what he spake His Word, the Filial Godhead, gave effect.
Immediate are the acts of God, more swift Than time or motion, but to human ears Cannot without process of speech be told, So told as earthly notion can receive.
So sang the Hierarchies: Mean while the Son On his great expedition now appeared, Girt with Omnipotence, with radiance crowned Of Majesty Divine; sapience and love Immense, and all his Father in him shone.
On heavenly ground they stood; and from the shore They viewed the vast immeasurable abyss Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild, Up from the bottom turned by furious winds And surging waves, as mountains, to assault Heaven's highth, and with the center mix the pole.
Silence, ye troubled Waves, and thou Deep, peace, Said then the Omnifick Word; your discord end!
Nor staid; but, on the wings of Cherubim Uplifted, in paternal glory rode Far into Chaos, and the world unborn; For Chaos heard his voice: Him all his train Followed in bright procession, to behold Creation, and the wonders of his might.
God saw the light was good; And light from darkness by the hemisphere Divided: light the Day, and darkness Night, He named.
The dry land, Earth; and the great receptacle Of congregated waters, he called Seas: And saw that it was good; and said, Let the Earth Put forth the verdant grass, herb yielding seed, And fruit-tree yielding fruit after her kind, Whose seed is in herself upon the Earth.
And God said, Let the waters generate Reptile with spawn abundant, living soul: And let fowl fly above the Earth, with wings Displayed on the open firmament of Heaven.
And God created the great whales, and each Soul living, each that crept, which plenteously The waters generated by their kinds; And every bird of wing after his kind; And saw that it was good, and blessed them, saying.
Be fruitful, multiply, and in the seas, And lakes, and running streams, the waters fill; And let the fowl be multiplied, on the Earth.
The waters thus With fish replenished, and the air with fowl, Evening and morn solemnized the fifth day.
The sixth, and of creation last, arose With evening harps and matin; when God said, Let the Earth bring forth soul living in her kind, Cattle, and creeping things, and beast of the Earth, Each in their kind.
thus to his Son audibly spake.
Let us make now Man in our image, Man In our similitude, and let them rule Over the fish and fowl of sea and air, Beast of the field, and over all the Earth, And every creeping thing that creeps the ground.
This said, he formed thee, Adam, thee, O Man, Dust of the ground, and in thy nostrils breathed The breath of life; in his own image he Created thee, in the image of God Express; and thou becamest a living soul.
Male he created thee; but thy consort Female, for race; then blessed mankind, and said, Be fruitful, multiply, and fill the Earth; Subdue it, and throughout dominion hold Over fish of the sea, and fowl of the air, And every living thing that moves on the Earth.
Open, ye everlasting gates!
they sung, Open, ye Heavens!
Creation and the six days acts they sung: Great are thy works, Jehovah!
what thought can measure thee, or tongue Relate thee!
Greater now in thy return Than from the giant Angels: Thee that day Thy thunders magnified; but to create Is greater than created to destroy.
Who can impair thee, Mighty King, or bound Thy empire!
Easily the proud attempt Of Spirits apostate, and their counsels vain, Thou hast repelled; while impiously they thought Thee to diminish, and from thee withdraw The number of thy worshippers.
Who seeks To lessen thee, against his purpose serves To manifest the more thy might: his evil Thou usest, and from thence createst more good.
Thrice happy Men, And sons of Men, whom God hath thus advanced!
Created in his image, there to dwell And worship him; and in reward to rule Over his works, on earth, in sea, or air, And multiply a race of worshippers Holy and just: Thrice happy, if they know Their happiness, and persevere upright!
So sung they, and the empyrean rung With halleluiahs: Thus was sabbath kept.
And thy request think now fulfilled, that asked How first this world and face of things began, And what before thy memory was done From the beginning; that posterity, Informed by thee, might know: If else thou seekest Aught, not surpassing human measure, say.
The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he a while Thought him still speaking, still stood fixed to hear; Then, as new waked, thus gratefully replied.
Something yet of doubt remains, Which only thy solution can resolve.
when meet now Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
With Goddess-like demeanour forth she went, Not unattended; for on her, as Queen, A pomp of winning Graces waited still, And from about her shot darts of desire Into all eyes, to wish her still in sight.
And Raphael now, to Adam's doubt proposed, Benevolent and facile thus replied.
Yet not to Earth are those bright luminaries Officious; but to thee, Earth's habitant.
But this I urge, Admitting motion in the Heavens, to show Invalid that which thee to doubt it moved; Not that I so affirm, though so it seem To thee who hast thy dwelling here on Earth.
God, to remove his ways from human sense, Placed Heaven from Earth so far, that earthly sight, If it presume, might err in things too high, And no advantage gain.
What if the sun Be center to the world; and other stars, By his attractive virtue and their own Incited, dance about him various rounds?
Their wandering course now high, now low, then hid, Progressive, retrograde, or standing still, In six thou seest; and what if seventh to these The planet earth, so stedfast though she seem, Insensibly three different motions move?
What if that light, Sent from her through the wide transpicuous air, To the terrestrial moon be as a star, Enlightening her by day, as she by night This earth?
For such vast room in Nature unpossessed By living soul, desart and desolate, Only to shine, yet scarce to contribute Each orb a glimpse of light, conveyed so far Down to this habitable, which returns Light back to them, is obvious to dispute.
To whom thus Adam, cleared of doubt, replied.
How fully hast thou satisfied me, pure Intelligence of Heaven, Angel serene!
And, freed from intricacies, taught to live The easiest way; nor with perplexing thoughts To interrupt the sweet of life, from which God hath bid dwell far off all anxious cares, And not molest us; unless we ourselves Seek them with wandering thoughts, and notions vain.
Therefore from this high pitch let us descend A lower flight, and speak of things at hand Useful; whence, haply, mention may arise Of something not unseasonable to ask, By sufferance, and thy wonted favour, deigned.
Thee I have heard relating what was done Ere my remembrance: now, hear me relate My story, which perhaps thou hast not heard; And day is not yet spent; till then thou seest How subtly to detain thee I devise; Inviting thee to hear while I relate; Fond!
To whom thus Raphael answered heavenly meek.
Not that they durst without his leave attempt; But us he sends upon his high behests For state, as Sovran King; and to inure Our prompt obedience.
Fast we found, fast shut, The dismal gates, and barricadoed strong; But long ere our approaching heard within Noise, other than the sound of dance or song, Torment, and loud lament, and furious rage.
Glad we returned up to the coasts of light Ere sabbath-evening: so we had in charge.
But thy relation now; for I attend, Pleased with thy words no less than thou with mine.
So spake the Godlike Power, and thus our Sire.
For Man to tell how human life began Is hard; for who himself beginning knew Desire with thee still longer to converse Induced me.
As new waked from soundest sleep, Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid, In balmy sweat; which with his beams the sun Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed.
called by thee, I come thy guide'To the garden of bliss, thy seat prepared.'
Rejoicing, but with awe, In adoration at his feet I fell Submiss: He reared me, and'Whom thou soughtest I am,' Said mildly,'Author of all this thou seest'Above, or round about thee, or beneath.
Sternly he pronounced The rigid interdiction, which resounds Yet dreadful in mine ear, though in my choice Not to incur; but soon his clear aspect Returned, and gracious purpose thus renewed.
As thus he spake, each bird and beast behold Approaching two and two; these cowering low With blandishment; each bird stooped on his wing.
I named them, as they passed, and understood Their nature, with such knowledge God endued My sudden apprehension: But in these I found not what methought I wanted still; And to the heavenly Vision thus presumed.
O, by what name, for thou above all these, Above mankind, or aught than mankind higher, Surpassest far my naming; how may I Adore thee, Author of this universe, And all this good to man?
for whose well being So amply, and with hands so liberal, Thou hast provided all things: But with me I see not who partakes.
In solitude What happiness, who can enjoy alone, Or, all enjoying, what contentment find?
Thus I presumptuous; and the Vision bright, As with a smile more brightened, thus replied.
What callest thou solitude?
Is not the Earth With various living creatures, and the air Replenished, and all these at thy command To come and play before thee?
Knowest thou not Their language and their ways?
They also know, And reason not contemptibly: With these Find pastime, and bear rule; thy realm is large.
So spake the Universal Lord, and seemed So ordering: I, with leave of speech implored, And humble deprecation, thus replied.
Let not my words offend thee, Heavenly Power; My Maker, be propitious while I speak.
Hast thou not made me here thy substitute, And these inferiour far beneath me set?
Among unequals what society Can sort, what harmony, or true delight?
Whereto the Almighty answered, not displeased.
A nice and subtle happiness, I see, Thou to thyself proposest, in the choice Of thy associates, Adam!
and wilt taste No pleasure, though in pleasure, solitary.
What thinkest thou then of me, and this my state?
Seem I to thee sufficiently possessed Of happiness, or not?
who am alone From all eternity; for none I know Second to me or like, equal much less.
How have I then with whom to hold converse, Save with the creatures which I made, and those To me inferiour, infinite descents Beneath what other creatures are to thee?
He ceased; I lowly answered.
To attain The highth and depth of thy eternal ways All human thoughts come short, Supreme of things!
Thou in thyself art perfect, and in thee Is no deficience found: Not so is Man, But in degree; the cause of his desire By conversation with his like to help Or solace his defects.
Thus I emboldened spake, and freedom used Permissive, and acceptance found; which gained This answer from the gracious Voice Divine.
I, overjoyed, could not forbear aloud.
This turn hath made amends; thou hast fulfilled Thy words, Creator bounteous and benign, Giver of all things fair!
but fairest this Of all thy gifts!
I now see Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself Before me: Woman is her name; of Man Extracted: for this cause he shall forego Father and mother, and to his wife adhere; And they shall be one flesh, one heart, one soul.
in all enjoyments else Superiour and unmoved; here only weak Against the charm of Beauty's powerful glance.
Or Nature failed in me, and left some part Not proof enough such object to sustain; Or, from my side subducting, took perhaps More than enough; at least on her bestowed Too much of ornament, in outward show Elaborate, of inward less exact.
To whom the Angel with contracted brow.
Accuse not Nature, she hath done her part; Do thou but thine; and be not diffident Of Wisdom; she deserts thee not, if thou Dismiss not her, when most thou needest her nigh, By attributing overmuch to things Less excellent, as thou thyself perceivest.
For, what admirest thou, what transports thee so, An outside?
To whom thus, half abashed, Adam replied.
Yet these subject not; I to thee disclose What inward thence I feel, not therefore foiled, Who meet with various objects, from the sense Variously representing; yet, still free, Approve the best, and follow what I approve.
To love, thou blamest me not; for Love, thou sayest, Leads up to Heaven, is both the way and guide; Bear with me then, if lawful what I ask: Love not the heavenly Spirits, and how their love Express they?
or do they mix Irradiance, virtual or immediate touch?
To whom the Angel, with a smile that glowed Celestial rosy red, Love's proper hue, Answered.
Let it suffice thee that thou knowest Us happy, and without love no happiness.
But I can now no more; the parting sun Beyond the Earth's green Cape and verdant Isles Hesperian sets, my signal to depart.
Be strong, live happy, and love!
But, first of all, Him, whom to love is to obey, and keep His great command; take heed lest passion sway Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will Would not admit: thine, and of all thy sons, The weal or woe in thee is placed; beware!
I in thy persevering shall rejoice, And all the Blest: Stand fast; to stand or fall Free in thine own arbitrement it lies.
Perfect within, no outward aid require; And all temptation to transgress repel.
So saying, he arose; whom Adam thus Followed with benediction.
Since to part, Go, heavenly guest, ethereal Messenger, Sent from whose sovran goodness I adore!
Gentle to me and affable hath been Thy condescension, and shall be honoured ever With grateful memory: Thou to mankind Be good and friendly still, and oft return!
So parted they; the Angel up to Heaven From the thick shade, and Adam to his bower.
No more of talk where God or Angel guest With Man, as with his friend, familiar us'd, To sit indulgent, and with him partake Rural repast; permitting him the while Venial discourse unblam'd.
Me, of these Nor skill'd nor studious, higher argument Remains; sufficient of itself to raise That name, unless an age too late, or cold Climate, or years, damp my intended wing Depress'd; and much they may, if all be mine, Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
Thus he resolved, but first from inward grief His bursting passion into plaints thus poured.
More justly, seat worthier of Gods, as built With second thoughts, reforming what was old!
O Earth, how like to Heaven, if not preferred For what God, after better, worse would build?
Terrestrial Heaven, danced round by other Heavens That shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps, Light above light, for thee alone, as seems, In thee concentring all their precious beams Of sacred influence!
With what delight could I have walked thee round, If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange Of hill, and valley, rivers, woods, and plains, Now land, now sea and shores with forest crowned, Rocks, dens, and caves!
But I in none of these Find place or refuge; and the more I see Pleasures about me, so much more I feel Torment within me, as from the hateful siege Of contraries: all good to me becomes Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
that I, who erst contended With Gods to sit the highest, am now constrained Into a beast; and, mixed with bestial slime, This essence to incarnate and imbrute, That to the highth of Deity aspired!
But what will not ambition and revenge Descend to?
Who aspires, must down as low As high he soared; obnoxious, first or last, To basest things.
To whom mild answer Adam thus returned.
Sole Eve, associate sole, to me beyond Compare above all living creatures dear!
Well hast thou motioned, well thy thoughts employed, How we might best fulfil the work which here God hath assigned us; nor of me shalt pass Unpraised: for nothing lovelier can be found In woman, than to study houshold good, And good works in her husband to promote.
For not to irksome toil, but to delight, He made us, and delight to reason joined.
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks, Safest and seemliest by her husband stays, Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
To whom the virgin majesty of Eve, As one who loves, and some unkindness meets, With sweet austere composure thus replied.
Offspring of Heaven and Earth, and all Earth's Lord!
That such an enemy we have, who seeks Our ruin, both by thee informed I learn, And from the parting Angel over-heard, As in a shady nook I stood behind, Just then returned at shut of evening flowers.
But, that thou shouldst my firmness therefore doubt To God or thee, because we have a foe May tempt it, I expected not to hear.
His violence thou fearest not, being such As we, not capable of death or pain, Can either not receive, or can repel.
His fraud is then thy fear; which plain infers Thy equal fear, that my firm faith and love Can by his fraud be shaken or seduced; Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy breast, Adam, mis-thought of her to thee so dear?
To whom with healing words Adam replied.
Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve!
For such thou art; from sin and blame entire: Not diffident of thee do I dissuade Thy absence from my sight, but to avoid The attempt itself, intended by our foe.
Nor thou his malice and false guile contemn; Subtle he needs must be, who could seduce Angels; nor think superfluous other's aid.
I, from the influence of thy looks, receive Access in every virtue; in thy sight More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on, Shame to be overcome or over-reached, Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite.
Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel When I am present, and thy trial choose With me, best witness of thy virtue tried?
So spake domestick Adam in his care And matrimonial love; but Eve, who thought Less attributed to her faith sincere, Thus her reply with accent sweet renewed.
If this be our condition, thus to dwell In narrow circuit straitened by a foe, Subtle or violent, we not endued Single with like defence, wherever met; How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
But harm precedes not sin: only our foe, Tempting, affronts us with his foul esteem Of our integrity: his foul esteem Sticks no dishonour on our front, but turns Foul on himself; then wherefore shunned or feared By us?
who rather double honour gain From his surmise proved false; find peace within, Favour from Heaven, our witness, from the event.
And what is faith, love, virtue, unassayed Alone, without exteriour help sustained?
Let us not then suspect our happy state Left so imperfect by the Maker wise, As not secure to single or combined.
Frail is our happiness, if this be so, And Eden were no Eden, thus exposed.
To whom thus Adam fervently replied.
But God left free the will; for what obeys Reason, is free; and Reason he made right, But bid her well be ware, and still erect; Lest, by some fair-appearing good surprised, She dictate false; and mis-inform the will To do what God expressly hath forbid.
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins, That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve; Since Reason not impossibly may meet Some specious object by the foe suborned, And fall into deception unaware, Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warned.
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid Were better, and most likely if from me Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.
Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve First thy obedience; the other who can know, Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?
But, if thou think, trial unsought may find Us both securer than thus warned thou seemest, Go; for thy stay, not free, absents thee more; Go in thy native innocence, rely On what thou hast of virtue; summon all!
For God towards thee hath done his part, do thine.
So spake the patriarch of mankind; but Eve Persisted; yet submiss, though last, replied.
To Pales, or Pomona, thus adorned, Likest she seemed, Pomona when she fled Vertumnus, or to Ceres in her prime, Yet virgin of Proserpina from Jove.
Her long with ardent look his eye pursued Delighted, but desiring more her stay.
Oft he to her his charge of quick return Repeated; she to him as oft engaged To be returned by noon amid the bower, And all things in best order to invite Noontide repast, or afternoon's repose.
O much deceived, much failing, hapless Eve, Of thy presumed return!
Thou never from that hour in Paradise Foundst either sweet repast, or sound repose; Such ambush, hid among sweet flowers and shades, Waited with hellish rancour imminent To intercept thy way, or send thee back Despoiled of innocence, of faith, of bliss!
For now, and since first break of dawn, the Fiend, Mere serpent in appearance, forth was come; And on his quest, where likeliest he might find The only two of mankind, but in them The whole included race, his purposed prey.
Much he the place admired, the person more.
Thoughts, whither have ye led me!
with what sweet Compulsion thus transported, to forget What hither brought us!
hate, not love; nor hope Of Paradise for Hell, hope here to taste Of pleasure; but all pleasure to destroy, Save what is in destroying; other joy To me is lost.
exempt from wound, I not; so much hath Hell debased, and pain Enfeebled me, to what I was in Heaven.
She fair, divinely fair, fit love for Gods!
Not terrible, though terrour be in love And beauty, not approached by stronger hate, Hate stronger, under show of love well feigned; The way which to her ruin now I tend.
So spake the enemy of mankind, enclosed In serpent, inmate bad!
and toward Eve Addressed his way: not with indented wave, Prone on the ground, as since; but on his rear, Circular base of rising folds, that towered Fold above fold, a surging maze!
With tract oblique At first, as one who sought access, but feared To interrupt, side-long he works his way.
He, bolder now, uncalled before her stood, But as in gaze admiring: oft he bowed His turret crest, and sleek enamelled neck, Fawning; and licked the ground whereon she trod.
His gentle dumb expression turned at length The eye of Eve to mark his play; he, glad Of her attention gained, with serpent-tongue Organick, or impulse of vocal air, His fraudulent temptation thus began.
Wonder not, sovran Mistress, if perhaps Thou canst, who art sole wonder!
much less arm Thy looks, the Heaven of mildness, with disdain, Displeased that I approach thee thus, and gaze Insatiate; I thus single; nor have feared Thy awful brow, more awful thus retired.
Fairest resemblance of thy Maker fair, Thee all things living gaze on, all things thine By gift, and thy celestial beauty adore With ravishment beheld!
there best beheld, Where universally admired; but here In this enclosure wild, these beasts among, Beholders rude, and shallow to discern Half what in thee is fair, one man except, Who sees thee?
who should be seen A Goddess among Gods, adored and served By Angels numberless, thy daily train.
So glozed the Tempter, and his proem tuned: Into the heart of Eve his words made way, Though at the voice much marvelling; at length, Not unamazed, she thus in answer spake.
language of man pronounced By tongue of brute, and human sense expressed?
The first, at least, of these I thought denied To beasts; whom God, on their creation-day, Created mute to all articulate sound: The latter I demur; for in their looks Much reason, and in their actions, oft appears.
Thee, Serpent, subtlest beast of all the field I knew, but not with human voice endued; Redouble then this miracle, and say, How camest thou speakable of mute, and how To me so friendly grown above the rest Of brutal kind, that daily are in sight?
Say, for such wonder claims attention due.
To whom the guileful Tempter thus replied.
Empress of this fair world, resplendent Eve!
To satisfy the sharp desire I had Of tasting those fair apples, I resolved Not to defer; hunger and thirst at once, Powerful persuaders, quickened at the scent Of that alluring fruit, urged me so keen.
About the mossy trunk I wound me soon; For, high from ground, the branches would require Thy utmost reach or Adam's: Round the tree All other beasts that saw, with like desire Longing and envying stood, but could not reach.
Amid the tree now got, where plenty hung Tempting so nigh, to pluck and eat my fill I spared not; for, such pleasure till that hour, At feed or fountain, never had I found.
Sated at length, ere long I might perceive Strange alteration in me, to degree Of reason in my inward powers; and speech Wanted not long; though to this shape retained.
which compelled Me thus, though importune perhaps, to come And gaze, and worship thee of right declared Sovran of creatures, universal Dame!
So talked the spirited sly Snake; and Eve, Yet more amazed, unwary thus replied.
Serpent, thy overpraising leaves in doubt The virtue of that fruit, in thee first proved: But say, where grows the tree?
To whom the wily Adder, blithe and glad.
Empress, the way is ready, and not long; Beyond a row of myrtles, on a flat, Fast by a fountain, one small thicket past Of blowing myrrh and balm: if thou accept My conduct, I can bring thee thither soon Lead then, said Eve.
He, leading, swiftly rolled In tangles, and made intricate seem straight, To mischief swift.
So glistered the dire Snake, and into fraud Led Eve, our credulous mother, to the tree Of prohibition, root of all our woe; Which when she saw, thus to her guide she spake.
Serpent, we might have spared our coming hither, Fruitless to me, though fruit be here to excess, The credit of whose virtue rest with thee; Wonderous indeed, if cause of such effects.
But of this tree we may not taste nor touch; God so commanded, and left that command Sole daughter of his voice; the rest, we live Law to ourselves; our reason is our law.
To whom the Tempter guilefully replied.
hath God then said that of the fruit Of all these garden-trees ye shall not eat, Yet Lords declared of all in earth or air $?
To whom thus Eve, yet sinless.
Of the fruit Of each tree in the garden we may eat; But of the fruit of this fair tree amidst The garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat Thereof, nor shall ye touch it, lest ye die.
She scarce had said, though brief, when now more bold The Tempter, but with show of zeal and love To Man, and indignation at his wrong, New part puts on; and, as to passion moved, Fluctuates disturbed, yet comely and in act Raised, as of some great matter to begin.
As when of old some orator renowned, In Athens or free Rome, where eloquence Flourished, since mute!
O sacred, wise, and wisdom-giving Plant, Mother of science!
now I feel thy power Within me clear; not only to discern Things in their causes, but to trace the ways Of highest agents, deemed however wise.
do not believe Those rigid threats of death: ye shall not die: How should you?
it gives you life To knowledge; by the threatener?
look on me, Me, who have touched and tasted; yet both live, And life more perfect have attained than Fate Meant me, by venturing higher than my lot.
Shall that be shut to Man, which to the Beast Is open?
or will God incense his ire For such a petty trespass?
and not praise Rather your dauntless virtue, whom the pain Of death denounced, whatever thing death be, Deterred not from achieving what might lead To happier life, knowledge of good and evil; Of good, how just?
of evil, if what is evil Be real, why not known, since easier shunned?
God therefore cannot hurt ye, and be just; Not just, not God; not feared then, nor obeyed: Your fear itself of death removes the fear.
Why then was this forbid?
Why, but to awe; Why, but to keep ye low and ignorant, His worshippers?
He knows that in the day Ye eat thereof, your eyes that seem so clear, Yet are but dim, shall perfectly be then Opened and cleared, and ye shall be as Gods, Knowing both good and evil, as they know.
That ye shall be as Gods, since I as Man, Internal Man, is but proportion meet; I, of brute, human; ye, of human, Gods.
So ye shall die perhaps, by putting off Human, to put on Gods; death to be wished, Though threatened, which no worse than this can bring.
And what are Gods, that Man may not become As they, participating God-like food?
and wherein lies The offence, that Man should thus attain to know?
What can your knowledge hurt him, or this tree Impart against his will, if all be his?
and can envy dwell In heavenly breasts?
These, these, and many more Causes import your need of this fair fruit.
Goddess humane, reach then, and freely taste!
but his forbidding Commends thee more, while it infers the good By thee communicated, and our want: For good unknown sure is not had; or, had And yet unknown, is as not had at all.
In plain then, what forbids he but to know, Forbids us good, forbids us to be wise?
Such prohibitions bind not.
But, if death Bind us with after-bands, what profits then Our inward freedom?
In the day we eat Of this fair fruit, our doom is, we shall die!
he hath eaten and lives, And knows, and speaks, and reasons, and discerns, Irrational till then.
For us alone Was death invented?
or to us denied This intellectual food, for beasts reserved?
For beasts it seems: yet that one beast which first Hath tasted envies not, but brings with joy The good befallen him, author unsuspect, Friendly to man, far from deceit or guile.
rather, what know to fear Under this ignorance of good and evil, Of God or death, of law or penalty?
Here grows the cure of all, this fruit divine, Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste, Of virtue to make wise: What hinders then To reach, and feed at once both body and mind?
So saying, her rash hand in evil hour Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she eat!
Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe, That all was lost.
Greedily she ingorged without restraint, And knew not eating death: Satiate at length, And hightened as with wine, jocund and boon, Thus to herself she pleasingly began.
O sovran, virtuous, precious of all trees In Paradise!
of operation blest To sapience, hitherto obscured, infamed.
Experience, next, to thee I owe, Best guide; not following thee, I had remained In ignorance; thou openest wisdom's way, And givest access, though secret she retire.
And I perhaps am secret: Heaven is high, High, and remote to see from thence distinct Each thing on Earth; and other care perhaps May have diverted from continual watch Our great Forbidder, safe with all his spies About him.
But to Adam in what sort Shall I appear?
shall I to him make known As yet my change, and give him to partake Full happiness with me, or rather not, But keeps the odds of knowledge in my power Without copartner?
so to add what wants In female sex, the more to draw his love, And render me more equal; and perhaps, A thing not undesirable, sometime Superiour; for, inferiour, who is free This may be well: But what if God have seen, And death ensue?
And Adam, wedded to another Eve, Shall live with her enjoying, I extinct; A death to think!
Confirmed then I resolve, Adam shall share with me in bliss or woe: So dear I love him, that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life.
So saying, from the tree her step she turned; But first low reverence done, as to the Power That dwelt within, whose presence had infused Into the plant sciential sap, derived From nectar, drink of Gods.
Adam the while, Waiting desirous her return, had wove Of choicest flowers a garland, to adorn Her tresses, and her rural labours crown; As reapers oft are wont their harvest-queen.
To him she hasted; in her face excuse Came prologue, and apology too prompt; Which, with bland words at will, she thus addressed.
Hast thou not wondered, Adam, at my stay?
Thee I have missed, and thought it long, deprived Thy presence; agony of love till now Not felt, nor shall be twice; for never more Mean I to try, what rash untried I sought, The pain of absence from thy sight.
For bliss, as thou hast part, to me is bliss; Tedious, unshared with thee, and odious soon.
Thou therefore also taste, that equal lot May join us, equal joy, as equal love; Lest, thou not tasting, different degree Disjoin us, and I then too late renounce Deity for thee, when Fate will not permit.
Thus Eve with countenance blithe her story told; But in her cheek distemper flushing glowed.
O fairest of Creation, last and best Of all God's works, Creature in whom excelled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote!
Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress The strict forbiddance, how to violate The sacred fruit forbidden!
Some cursed fraud Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown, And me with thee hath ruined; for with thee Certain my resolution is to die: How can I live without thee!
how forego Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined, To live again in these wild woods forlorn!
Should God create another Eve, and I Another rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart: no, no! I feel The link of Nature draw me: flesh of flesh, Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
So having said, as one from sad dismay Recomforted, and after thoughts disturbed Submitting to what seemed remediless, Thus in calm mood his words to Eve he turned.
Bold deed thou hast presumed, adventurous Eve, And peril great provoked, who thus hast dared, Had it been only coveting to eye That sacred fruit, sacred to abstinence, Much more to taste it under ban to touch.
But past who can recall, or done undo?
Me first " He ruined, now Mankind; whom will he next?
Matter of scorn, not to be given the Foe.
So Adam; and thus Eve to him replied.
O glorious trial of exceeding love, Illustrious evidence, example high!
On my experience, Adam, freely taste, And fear of death deliver to the winds.
So saying, she embraced him, and for joy Tenderly wept; much won, that he his love Had so ennobled, as of choice to incur Divine displeasure for her sake, or death.
In recompence for such compliance bad Such recompence best merits from the bough She gave him of that fair enticing fruit With liberal hand: he scrupled not to eat, Against his better knowledge; not deceived, But fondly overcome with female charm.
Eve, now I see thou art exact of taste, And elegant, of sapience no small part; Since to each meaning savour we apply, And palate call judicious; I the praise Yield thee, so well this day thou hast purveyed.
Much pleasure we have lost, while we abstained From this delightful fruit, nor known till now True relish, tasting; if such pleasure be In things to us forbidden, it might be wished, For this one tree had been forbidden ten.
So said he, and forbore not glance or toy Of amorous intent; well understood Of Eve, whose eye darted contagious fire.
Her hand he seised; and to a shady bank, Thick over-head with verdant roof imbowered, He led her nothing loth; flowers were the couch, Pansies, and violets, and asphodel, And hyacinth; Earth's freshest softest lap.
So rose the Danite strong, Herculean Samson, from the harlot-lap Of Philistean Dalilah, and waked Shorn of his strength.
They destitute and bare Of all their virtue: Silent, and in face Confounded, long they sat, as strucken mute: Till Adam, though not less than Eve abashed, At length gave utterance to these words constrained.
Those heavenly shapes Will dazzle now this earthly with their blaze Insufferably bright.
might I here In solitude live savage; in some glade Obscured, where highest woods, impenetrable To star or sun-light, spread their umbrage broad And brown as evening: Cover me, ye Pines!
O, how unlike To that first naked glory!
Such of late Columbus found the American, so girt With feathered cincture; naked else, and wild Among the trees on isles and woody shores.
Would thou hadst hearkened to my words, and staid With me, as I besought thee, when that strange Desire of wandering, this unhappy morn, I know not whence possessed thee; we had then Remained still happy; not, as now, despoiled Of all our good; shamed, naked, miserable!
Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve The faith they owe; when earnestly they seek Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.
To whom, soon moved with touch of blame, thus Eve.
What words have passed thy lips, Adam severe!
Imputest thou that to my default, or will Of wandering, as thou callest it, which who knows But might as ill have happened thou being by, Or to thyself perhaps?
Hadst thou been there, Or here the attempt, thou couldst not have discerned Fraud in the Serpent, speaking as he spake; No ground of enmity between us known, Why he should mean me ill, or seek to harm.
Was I to have never parted from thy side?
As good have grown there still a lifeless rib.
Being as I am, why didst not thou, the head, Command me absolutely not to go, Going into such danger, as thou saidst?
Too facile then, thou didst not much gainsay; Nay, didst permit, approve, and fair dismiss.
Hadst thou been firm and fixed in thy dissent, Neither had I transgressed, nor thou with me.
To whom, then first incensed, Adam replied.
Is this the love, is this the recompence Of mine to thee, ingrateful Eve!
expressed Immutable, when thou wert lost, not I; Who might have lived, and joyed immortal bliss, Yet willingly chose rather death with thee?
And am I now upbraided as the cause Of thy transgressing?
Not enough severe, It seems, in thy restraint: What could I more I warned thee, I admonished thee, foretold The danger, and the lurking enemy That lay in wait; beyond this, had been force; And force upon free will hath here no place.
Thus it shall befall Him, who, to worth in women overtrusting, Lets her will rule: restraint she will not brook; And, left to herself, if evil thence ensue, She first his weak indulgence will accuse.
Thus they in mutual accusation spent The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemning; And of their vain contest appeared no end.
Mean while the heinous and despiteful act Of Satan, done in Paradise; and how He, in the serpent, had perverted Eve, Her husband she, to taste the fatal fruit, Was known in Heaven; for what can'scape the eye Of God all-seeing, or deceive his heart Omniscient?
who, in all things wise and just, Hindered not Satan to attempt the mind Of Man, with strength entire and free will armed, Complete to have discovered and repulsed Whatever wiles of foe or seeming friend.
For still they knew, and ought to have still remembered, The high injunction, not to taste that fruit, Whoever tempted; which they not obeying, (Incurred what could they less?)
the penalty; And, manifold in sin, deserved to fall.
Up into Heaven from Paradise in haste The angelick guards ascended, mute, and sad, For Man; for of his state by this they knew, Much wondering how the subtle Fiend had stolen Entrance unseen.
Soon as the unwelcome news From Earth arrived at Heaven-gate, displeased All were who heard; dim sadness did not spare That time celestial visages, yet, mixed With pity, violated not their bliss.
Assembled Angels, and ye Powers returned From unsuccessful charge; be not dismayed, Nor troubled at these tidings from the earth, Which your sincerest care could not prevent; Foretold so lately what would come to pass, When first this tempter crossed the gulf from Hell.
But fallen he is; and now What rests, but that the mortal sentence pass On his transgression- death denounced that day?
Which he presumes already vain and void, Because not yet inflicted, as he feared, By some immediate stroke; but soon shall find Forbearance no acquittance, ere day end.
Justice shall not return as bounty scorned.
But whom send I to judge them?
whom but thee, Vicegerent Son?
To thee I have transferred All judgement, whether in Heaven, or Earth, or Hell.
Easy it may be seen that I intend Mercy colleague with justice, sending thee Man's friend, his Mediator, his designed Both ransom and Redeemer voluntary, And destined Man himself to judge Man fallen.
So spake the Father; and, unfolding bright Toward the right hand his glory, on the Son Blazed forth unclouded Deity: He full Resplendent all his Father manifest Expressed, and thus divinely answered mild.
Father Eternal, thine is to decree; Mine, both in Heaven and Earth, to do thy will Supreme; that thou in me, thy Son beloved, Mayest ever rest well pleased.
Attendance none shall need, nor train, where none Are to behold the judgement, but the judged, Those two; the third best absent is condemned, Convict by flight, and rebel to all law: Conviction to the serpent none belongs.
Thus saying, from his radiant seat he rose Of high collateral glory: Him Thrones, and Powers, Princedoms, and Dominations ministrant, Accompanied to Heaven-gate; from whence Eden, and all the coast, in prospect lay.
Down he descended straight; the speed of Gods Time counts not, though with swiftest minutes winged.
Where art thou, Adam, wont with joy to meet My coming seen far off?
I miss thee here, Not pleased, thus entertained with solitude, Where obvious duty ere while appeared unsought: Or come I less conspicuous, or what change Absents thee, or what chance detains?Come forth!
He came; and with him Eve, more loth, though first To offend; discountenanced both, and discomposed; Love was not in their looks, either to God, Or to each other; but apparent guilt, And shame, and perturbation, and despair, Anger, and obstinacy, and hate, and guile.
Whence Adam, faltering long, thus answered brief.
I heard thee in the garden, and of thy voice Afraid, being naked, hid myself.
To whom The gracious Judge without revile replied.
My voice thou oft hast heard, and hast not feared, But still rejoiced; how is it now become So dreadful to thee?
That thou art naked, who Hath told thee?
Hast thou eaten of the tree, Whereof I gave thee charge thou shouldst not eat?
To whom thus Adam sore beset replied.
To whom the Sovran Presence thus replied.
Was she thy God, that her thou didst obey Before his voice?
or was she made thy guide, Superiour, or but equal, that to her Thou didst resign thy manhood, and the place Wherein God set thee above her made of thee, And for thee, whose perfection far excelled Hers in all real dignity?
Adorned She was indeed, and lovely, to attract Thy love, not thy subjection; and her gifts Were such, as under government well seemed; Unseemly to bear rule; which was thy part And person, hadst thou known thyself aright.
So having said, he thus to Eve in few.
Say, Woman, what is this which thou hast done?
To whom sad Eve, with shame nigh overwhelmed, Confessing soon, yet not before her Judge Bold or loquacious, thus abashed replied.
The Serpent me beguiled, and I did eat.
Because thou hast done this, thou art accursed Above all cattle, each beast of the field; Upon thy belly groveling thou shalt go, And dust shalt eat all the days of thy life.
Between thee and the woman I will put Enmity, and between thine and her seed; Her seed shall bruise thy head, thou bruise his heel.
Thy sorrow I will greatly multiply By thy conception; children thou shalt bring In sorrow forth; and to thy husband's will Thine shall submit; he over thee shall rule.
On Adam last thus judgement he pronounced.
Opprobrious, with his robe of righteousness, Arraying, covered from his Father's sight.
To him with swift ascent he up returned, Into his blissful bosom reassumed In glory, as of old; to him appeased All, though all-knowing, what had passed with Man Recounted, mixing intercession sweet.
Mean while, ere thus was sinned and judged on Earth, Within the gates of Hell sat Sin and Death, In counterview within the gates, that now Stood open wide, belching outrageous flame Far into Chaos, since the Fiend passed through, Sin opening; who thus now to Death began.
O Son, why sit we here each other viewing Idly, while Satan, our great author, thrives In other worlds, and happier seat provides For us, his offspring dear?
It cannot be But that success attends him; if mishap, Ere this he had returned, with fury driven By his avengers; since no place like this Can fit his punishment, or their revenge.
Methinks I feel new strength within me rise, Wings growing, and dominion given me large Beyond this deep; whatever draws me on, Or sympathy, or some connatural force, Powerful at greatest distance to unite, With secret amity, things of like kind, By secretest conveyance.
Thou, my shade Inseparable, must with me along; For Death from Sin no power can separate.
Nor can I miss the way, so strongly drawn By this new-felt attraction and instinct.
Whom thus the meager Shadow answered soon.
So saying, with delight he snuffed the smell Of mortal change on earth.
So, if great things to small may be compared, Xerxes, the liberty of Greece to yoke, From Susa, his Memnonian palace high, Came to the sea: and, over Hellespont Bridging his way, Europe with Asia joined, And scourged with many a stroke the indignant waves.
And now in little space The confines met of empyrean Heaven, And of this World; and, on the left hand, Hell With long reach interposed; three several ways In sight, to each of these three places led.
And now their way to Earth they had descried, To Paradise first tending; when, behold!
Satan, in likeness of an Angel bright, Betwixt the Centaur and the Scorpion steering His zenith, while the sun in Aries rose: Disguised he came; but those his children dear Their parent soon discerned, though in disguise.
Great joy was at their meeting, and at sight Of that stupendious bridge his joy encreased.
Long he admiring stood, till Sin, his fair Enchanting daughter, thus the silence broke.
O Parent, these are thy magnifick deeds, Thy trophies!
Hell could no longer hold us in our bounds, Nor this unvoyageable gulf obscure Detain from following thy illustrious track.
Thou hast achieved our liberty, confined Within Hell-gates till now; thou us impowered To fortify thus far, and overlay, With this portentous bridge, the dark abyss.
Whom thus the Prince of darkness answered glad.
My substitutes I send ye, and create Plenipotent on earth, of matchless might Issuing from me: on your joint vigour now My hold of this new kingdom all depends, Through Sin to Death exposed by my exploit.
If your joint power prevail, the affairs of Hell No detriment need fear; go, and be strong!
So saying he dismissed them; they with speed Their course through thickest constellations held, Spreading their bane; the blasted stars looked wan, And planets, planet-struck, real eclipse Then suffered.
therein Man Placed in a Paradise, by our exile Made happy: Him by fraud I have seduced From his Creator; and, the more to encrease Your wonder, with an apple; he, thereat Offended, worth your laughter!
hath given up Both his beloved Man, and all his world, To Sin and Death a prey, and so to us, Without our hazard, labour, or alarm; To range in, and to dwell, and over Man To rule, as over all he should have ruled.
Thus was the applause they meant, Turned to exploding hiss, triumph to shame Cast on themselves from their own mouths.
Thus were they plagued And worn with famine, long and ceaseless hiss, Till their lost shape, permitted, they resumed; Yearly enjoined, some say, to undergo, This annual humbling certain numbered days, To dash their pride, and joy, for Man seduced.
Mean while in Paradise the hellish pair Too soon arrived; Sin, there in power before, Once actual; now in body, and to dwell Habitual habitant; behind her Death, Close following pace for pace, not mounted yet On his pale horse: to whom Sin thus began.
Second of Satan sprung, all-conquering Death!
What thinkest thou of our empire now, though earned With travel difficult, not better far Than still at Hell's dark threshold to have sat watch, Unnamed, undreaded, and thyself half starved?
Whom thus the Sin-born monster answered soon.
To me, who with eternal famine pine, Alike is Hell, or Paradise, or Heaven; There best, where most with ravine I may meet; Which here, though plenteous, all too little seems To stuff this maw, this vast unhide-bound corps.
To whom the incestuous mother thus replied.
Thou therefore on these herbs, and fruits, and flowers, Feed first; on each beast next, and fish, and fowl; No homely morsels!
and, whatever thing The sithe of Time mows down, devour unspared; Till I, in Man residing, through the race, His thoughts, his looks, words, actions, all infect; And season him thy last and sweetest prey.
This said, they both betook them several ways, Both to destroy, or unimmortal make All kinds, and for destruction to mature Sooner or later; which the Almighty seeing, From his transcendent seat the Saints among, To those bright Orders uttered thus his voice.
Then Heaven and Earth renewed shall be made pure To sanctity, that shall receive no stain: Till then, the curse pronounced on both precedes.
He ended, and the heavenly audience loud Sung Halleluiah, as the sound of seas, Through multitude that sung: Just are thy ways, Righteous are thy decrees on all thy works; Who can extenuate thee?
Next, to the Son, Destined Restorer of mankind, by whom New Heaven and Earth shall to the ages rise, Or down from Heaven descend- Such was their song; While the Creator, calling forth by name His mighty Angels, gave them several charge, As sorted best with present things.
The sun Had first his precept so to move, so shine, As might affect the earth with cold and heat Scarce tolerable; and from the north to call Decrepit winter; from the south to bring Solstitial summer's heat.
At that tasted fruit The sun, as from Thyestean banquet, turned His course intended; else, how had the world Inhabited, though sinless, more than now, Avoided pinching cold and scorching heat?
These were from without The growing miseries, which Adam saw Already in part, though hid in gloomiest shade, To sorrow abandoned, but worse felt within; And, in a troubled sea of passion tost, Thus to disburden sought with sad complaint.
Is this the end Of this new glorious world, and me so late The glory of that glory, who now become Accursed, of blessed?
hide me from the face Of God, whom to behold was then my highth Of happiness- Yet well, if here would end The misery; I deserved it, and would bear My own deservings; but this will not serve: All that I eat or drink, or shall beget, Is propagated curse.
O voice, once heard Delightfully, Encrease and multiply; Now death to hear!
for what can I encrease, Or multiply, but curses on my head?
Who of all ages to succeed, but, feeling The evil on him brought by me, will curse My head?
Ill fare our ancestor impure, For this we may thank Adam!
but his thanks Shall be the execration: so, besides Mine own that bide upon me, all from me Shall with a fierce reflux on me rebound; On me, as on their natural center, light Heavy, though in their place.
O fleeting joys Of Paradise, dear bought with lasting woes!
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me Man?
did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me, or here place In this delicious garden?
As my will Concurred not to my being, it were but right And equal to reduce me to my dust; Desirous to resign and render back All I received; unable to perform Thy terms too hard, by which I was to hold The good I sought not.
To the loss of that, Sufficient penalty, why hast thou added The sense of endless woes?
Inexplicable Why am I mocked with death, and lengthened out To deathless pain?
How gladly would I meet Mortality my sentence, and be earth Insensible!
How glad would lay me down As in my mother's lap!
There I should rest, And sleep secure; his dreadful voice no more Would thunder in my ears; no fear of worse To me, and to my offspring, would torment me With cruel expectation.
Yet one doubt Pursues me still, lest all I cannot die; Lest that pure breath of life, the spirit of Man Which God inspired, cannot together perish With this corporeal clod; then, in the grave, Or in some other dismal place, who knows But I shall die a living death?
O thought Horrid, if true!
It was but breath Of life that sinned; what dies but what had life And sin?
The body properly had neither, All of me then shall die: let this appease The doubt, since human reach no further knows.
For though the Lord of all be infinite, Is his wrath also?
Be it, Man is not so, But mortal doomed.
How can he exercise Wrath without end on Man, whom death must end?
Can he make deathless death?
That were to make Strange contradiction, which to God himself Impossible is held; as argument Of weakness, not of power.
Will he draw out, For anger's sake, finite to infinite, In punished Man, to satisfy his rigour, Satisfied never?
That were to extend His sentence beyond dust and Nature's law; By which all causes else, according still To the reception of their matter, act; Not to the extent of their own sphere.
O, were I able To waste it all myself, and leave ye none!
So disinherited, how would you bless Me, now your curse!
Ah, why should all mankind, For one man's fault, thus guiltless be condemned, It guiltless?
But from me what can proceed, But all corrupt; both mind and will depraved Not to do only, but to will the same With me?
How can they then acquitted stand In sight of God?
Him, after all disputes, Forced I absolve: all my evasions vain, And reasonings, though through mazes, lead me still But to my own conviction: first and last On me, me only, as the source and spring Of all corruption, all the blame lights due; So might the wrath!
Fond wish! couldst thou support That burden, heavier than the earth to bear; Than all the world much heavier, though divided With that bad Woman?
Thus, what thou desirest, And what thou fearest, alike destroys all hope Of refuge, and concludes thee miserable Beyond all past example and future; To Satan only like both crime and doom.
into what abyss of fears And horrours hast thou driven me; out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged!
Why comes not Death, Said he, with one thrice-acceptable stroke To end me?
Shall Truth fail to keep her word, Justice Divine not hasten to be just?
But Death comes not at call; Justice Divine Mends not her slowest pace for prayers or cries, O woods, O fountains, hillocks, dales, and bowers!
With other echo late I taught your shades To answer, and resound far other song- Whom thus afflicted when sad Eve beheld, Desolate where she sat, approaching nigh, Soft words to his fierce passion she assayed: But her with stern regard he thus repelled.
Out of my sight, thou Serpent!
why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest Heaven With Spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With Men, as Angels, without feminine; Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
He added not, and from her turned; but Eve, Not so repulsed, with tears that ceased not flowing And tresses all disordered, at his feet Fell humble; and, embracing them, besought His peace, and thus proceeded in her plaint.
Forsake me not thus, Adam!
witness Heaven What love sincere, and reverence in my heart I bear thee, and unweeting have offended, Unhappily deceived!
Thy suppliant I beg, and clasp thy knees; bereave me not, Whereon I live, thy gentle looks, thy aid, Thy counsel, in this uttermost distress, My only strength and stay: Forlorn of thee, Whither shall I betake me, where subsist?
Unwary, and too desirous, as before, So now of what thou knowest not, who desirest The punishment all on thyself; alas!
Bear thine own first, ill able to sustain His full wrath, whose thou feelest as yet least part, And my displeasure bearest so ill.
If prayers Could alter high decrees, I to that place Would speed before thee, and be louder heard, That on my head all might be visited; Thy frailty and infirmer sex forgiven, To me committed, and by me exposed.
To whom thus Eve, recovering heart, replied.
Childless thou art, childless remain: so Death Shall be deceived his glut, and with us two Be forced to satisfy his ravenous maw.
She ended here, or vehement despair Broke off the rest: so much of death her thoughts Had entertained, as dyed her cheeks with pale.
But Adam, with such counsel nothing swayed, To better hopes his more attentive mind Labouring had raised; and thus to Eve replied.
unless Be meant, whom I conjecture, our grand foe, Satan; who, in the serpent, hath contrived Against us this deceit: To crush his head Would be revenge indeed!
which will be lost By death brought on ourselves, or childless days Resolved, as thou proposest; so our foe Shal'scape his punishment ordained, and we Instead shall double ours upon our heads.
No more be mentioned then of violence Against ourselves; and wilful barrenness, That cuts us off from hope; and savours only Rancour and pride, impatience and despite, Reluctance against God and his just yoke Laid on our necks.
Undoubtedly he will relent, and turn From his displeasure; in whose look serene, When angry most he seemed and most severe, What else but favour, grace, and mercy, shone?
To whom the Father, without cloud, serene.
But let us call to synod all the Blest, Through Heaven's wide bounds: from them I will not hide My judgements; how with mankind I proceed, As how with peccant Angels late they saw, And in their state, though firm, stood more confirmed.
He ended, and the Son gave signal high To the bright minister that watched; he blew His trumpet, heard in Oreb since perhaps When God descended, and perhaps once more To sound at general doom.
O Sons, like one of us Man is become To know both good and evil, since his taste Of that defended fruit; but let him boast His knowledge of good lost, and evil got; Happier!
had it sufficed him to have known Good by itself, and evil not at all.
He sorrows now, repents, and prays contrite, My motions in him; longer than they move, His heart I know, how variable and vain, Self-left.
Lest therefore his now bolder hand Reach also of the tree of life, and eat, And live for ever, dream at least to live For ever, to remove him I decree, And send him from the garden forth to till The ground whence he was taken, fitter soil.
Yet, lest they faint At the sad sentence rigorously urged, (For I behold them softened, and with tears Bewailing their excess,) all terrour hide.
Whence hail to thee, Eve rightly called, mother of all mankind, Mother of all things living, since by thee Man is to live; and all things live for Man.
To whom thus Eve with sad demeanour meek.
Here let us live, though in fallen state, content.
Adam observed, and with his eye the chase Pursuing, not unmoved, to Eve thus spake.
O Eve, some further change awaits us nigh, Which Heaven, by these mute signs in Nature, shows Forerunners of his purpose; or to warn Us, haply too secure, of our discharge From penalty, because from death released Some days: how long, and what till then our life, Who knows?
or more than this, that we are dust, And thither must return, and be no more?
Why else this double object in our sight Of flight pursued in the air, and o'er the ground, One way the self-same hour?
why in the east Darkness ere day's mid-course, and morning-light More orient in yon western cloud, that draws O'er the blue firmament a radiant white, And slow descends with something heavenly fraught?
He erred not; for by this the heavenly bands Down from a sky of jasper lighted now In Paradise, and on a hill made halt; A glorious apparition, had not doubt And carnal fear that day dimmed Adam's eye.
The princely Hierarch In their bright stand there left his Powers, to seise Possession of the garden; he alone, To find where Adam sheltered, took his way, Not unperceived of Adam; who to Eve, While the great visitant approached, thus spake.
yet not terrible, That I should fear; nor sociably mild, As Raphael, that I should much confide; But solemn and sublime; whom not to offend, With reverence I must meet, and thou retire.
Adam bowed low; he, kingly, from his state Inclined not, but his coming thus declared.
He added not; for Adam at the news Heart-struck with chilling gripe of sorrow stood, That all his senses bound; Eve, who unseen Yet all had heard, with audible lament Discovered soon the place of her retire.
O unexpected stroke, worse than of Death!
Must I thus leave thee $ Paradise?
thus leave Thee, native soil!
these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of Gods?
where I had hope to spend, Quiet though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both.
O flowers, That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation, and my last; t even, which I bred up with tender hand From the first opening bud, and gave ye names!
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount?
Thee lastly, nuptial bower!
by me adorned With what to sight or smell was sweet!
from thee How shall I part, and whither wander down Into a lower world; to this obscure And wild?
how shall we breathe in other air Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits?
Whom thus the Angel interrupted mild.
Lament not, Eve, but patiently resign What justly thou hast lost, nor set thy heart, Thus over-fond, on that which is not thine: Thy going is not lonely; with thee goes Thy husband; whom to follow thou art bound; Where he abides, think there thy native soil.
Adam, by this from the cold sudden damp Recovering, and his scattered spirits returned, To Michael thus his humble words addressed.
Celestial, whether among the Thrones, or named Of them the highest; for such of shape may seem Prince above princes!
For though I fled him angry, yet recalled To life prolonged and promised race, I now Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts Of glory; and far off his steps adore.
To whom thus Michael with regard benign.
To whom thus Adam gratefully replied.
Ascend, I follow thee, safe Guide, the path Thou leadest me; and to the hand of Heaven submit, However chastening; to the evil turn My obvious breast; arming to overcome By suffering, and earn rest from labour won, If so I may attain.
So both ascend In the visions of God.
It was a hill, Of Paradise the highest; from whose top The hemisphere of earth, in clearest ken, Stretched out to the amplest reach of prospect lay.
Not higher that hill, nor wider looking round, Whereon, for different cause, the Tempter set Our second Adam, in the wilderness; To show him all Earth's kingdoms, and their glory.
But to nobler sights Michael from Adam's eyes the film removed, Which that false fruit that promised clearer sight Had bred; then purged with euphrasy and rue The visual nerve, for he had much to see; And from the well of life three drops instilled.
So deep the power of these ingredients pierced, Even to the inmost seat of mental sight, That Adam, now enforced to close his eyes, Sunk down, and all his spirits became entranced; But him the gentle Angel by the hand Soon raised, and his attention thus recalled.
Much at that sight was Adam in his heart Dismayed, and thus in haste to the Angel cried.
O Teacher, some great mischief hath befallen To that meek man, who well had sacrificed; Is piety thus and pure devotion paid?
To whom Michael thus, he also moved, replied.
both for the deed, and for the cause!
But have I now seen Death?
Is this the way I must return to native dust?
O sight Of terrour, foul and ugly to behold, Horrid to think, how horrible to feel!
Death thou hast seen In his first shape on Man; but many shapes Of Death, and many are the ways that lead To his grim cave, all dismal; yet to sense More terrible at the entrance, than within.
Dire was the tossing, deep the groans; Despair Tended the sick busiest from couch to couch; And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook, but delayed to strike, though oft invoked With vows, as their chief good, and final hope.
Sight so deform what heart of rock could long Dry-eyed behold?
Adam could not, but wept, Though not of woman born; compassion quelled His best of man, and gave him up to tears A space, till firmer thoughts restrained excess; And, scarce recovering words, his plaint renewed.
O miserable mankind, to what fall Degraded, to what wretched state reserved!
Why is life given To be thus wrested from us?
rather, why Obtruded on us thus?
who, if we knew What we receive, would either no accept Life offered, or soon beg to lay it down; Glad to be so dismissed in peace.
Can thus The image of God in Man, created once So goodly and erect, though faulty since, To such unsightly sufferings be debased Under inhuman pains?
Why should not Man, Retaining still divine similitude In part, from such deformities be free, And, for his Maker's image sake, exempt?
Their Maker's image, answered Michael, then Forsook them, when themselves they vilified To serve ungoverned Appetite; and took His image whom they served, a brutish vice, Inductive mainly to the sin of Eve.
Therefore so abject is their punishment, Disfiguring not God's likeness, but their own; Or if his likeness, by themselves defaced; While they pervert pure Nature's healthful rules To loathsome sickness; worthily, since they God's image did not reverence in themselves.
I yield it just, said Adam, and submit.
But is there yet no other way, besides These painful passages, how we may come To death, and mix with our connatural dust?
Henceforth I fly not death, nor would prolong Life much; bent rather, how I may be quit, Fairest and easiest, of this cumbrous charge; Which I must keep till my appointed day Of rendering up, and patiently attend My dissolution.
Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou livest Live well; how long, or short, permit to Heaven: And now prepare thee for another sight.
Such happy interview, and fair event Of love and youth not lost, songs, garlands, flowers, And charming symphonies, attached the heart Of Adam, soon inclined to admit delight, The bent of nature; which he thus expressed.
True opener of mine eyes, prime Angel blest; Much better seems this vision, and more hope Of peaceful days portends, than those two past; Those were of hate and death, or pain much worse; Here Nature seems fulfilled in all her ends.
Judge not what is best By pleasure, though to nature seeming meet; Created, as thou art, to nobler end Holy and pure, conformity divine.
To whom thus Adam, of short joy bereft.
O pity and shame, that they, who to live well Entered so fair, should turn aside to tread Paths indirect, or in the mid way faint!
But still I see the tenour of Man's woe Holds on the same, from Woman to begin.
From Man's effeminate slackness it begins, Said the Angel, who should better hold his place By wisdom, and superiour gifts received.
But now prepare thee for another scene.
Adam was all in tears, and to his guide Lamenting turned full sad; O! what are these, Death's ministers, not men?
who thus deal death Inhumanly to men, and multiply Ten thousandfold the sin of him who slew His brother: for of whom such massacre Make they, but of their brethren; men of men But who was that just man, whom had not Heaven Rescued, had in his righteousness been lost?
These are the product Of those ill-mated marriages thou sawest; Where good with bad were matched, who of themselves Abhor to join; and, by imprudence mixed, Produce prodigious births of body or mind.
Thus fame shall be achieved, renown on earth; And what most merits fame, in silence hid.
Of every beast, and bird, and insect small, Came sevens, and pairs; and entered in as taught Their order: last the sire and his three sons, With their four wives; and God made fast the door.
How didst thou grieve then, Adam, to behold The end of all thy offspring, end so sad, Depopulation!
Better had I Lived ignorant of future!
so had borne My part of evil only, each day's lot Enough to bear; those now, that were dispensed The burden of many ages, on me light At once, by my foreknowledge gaining birth Abortive, to torment me ere their being, With thought that they must be.
unfold, celestial Guide, And whether here the race of Man will end.
And now, what further shall ensue, behold.
The ark no more now floats, but seems on ground, Fast on the top of some high mountain fixed.
And now the tops of hills, as rocks, appear; With clamour thence the rapid currents drive, Towards the retreating sea, their furious tide.
Whereat the heart of Adam, erst so sad, Greatly rejoiced; and thus his joy broke forth.
O thou, who future things canst represent As present, heavenly Instructer!
I revive At this last sight; assured that Man shall live, With all the creatures, and their seed preserve.
Far less I now lament for one whole world Of wicked sons destroyed, than I rejoice For one man found so perfect, and so just, That God vouchsafes to raise another world From him, and all his anger to forget.
But say, what mean those coloured streaks in Heaven Distended, as the brow of God appeased?
Or serve they, as a flowery verge, to bind The fluid skirts of that same watery cloud, Lest it again dissolve, and shower the earth?
As one who in his journey bates at noon, Though bent on speed; so here the Arch-Angel paused Betwixt the world destroyed and world restored, If Adam aught perhaps might interpose; Then, with transition sweet, new speech resumes.
Thus thou hast seen one world begin, and end; And Man, as from a second stock, proceed.
Much thou hast yet to see; but I perceive Thy mortal sight to fail; objects divine Must needs impair and weary human sense: Henceforth what is to come I will relate; Thou therefore give due audience, and attend.
Whereto thus Adam, fatherly displeased.
Therefore, since he permits Within himself unworthy powers to reign Over free reason, God, in judgement just, Subjects him from without to violent lords; Who oft as undeservedly enthrall His outward freedom: Tyranny must be; Though to the tyrant thereby no excuse.
should be so stupid grown, While yet the patriarch lived, who'scaped the flood, As to forsake the living God, and fall To worship their own work in wood and stone For Gods!
This ponder, that all nations of the earth Shall in his seed be blessed: By that seed Is meant thy great Deliverer, who shall bruise The Serpent's head; whereof to thee anon Plainlier shall be revealed.
To sojourn in that land He comes, invited by a younger son In time of dearth, a son whose worthy deeds Raise him to be the second in that realm Of Pharaoh.
so call the third From Abraham, son of Isaac; and from him His whole descent, who thus shall Canaan win.
This yet I apprehend not, why to those Among whom God will deign to dwell on earth So many and so various laws are given; So many laws argue so many sins Among them; how can God with such reside?
But first, a long succession must ensue; And his next son, for wealth and wisdom famed, The clouded ark of God, till then in tents Wandering, shall in a glorious temple enshrine.
There in captivity he lets them dwell The space of seventy years; then brings them back, Remembering mercy, and his covenant sworn To David, stablished as the days of Heaven.
A virgin is his mother, but his sire The power of the Most High: He shall ascend The throne hereditary, and bound his reign With Earth's wide bounds, his glory with the Heavens.
He ceased, discerning Adam with such joy Surcharged, as had like grief been dewed in tears, Without the vent of words; which these he breathed.
O prophet of glad tidings, finisher Of utmost hope!
Needs must the Serpent now his capital bruise Expect with mortal pain: Say where and when Their fight, what stroke shall bruise the victor's heel.
All nations they shall teach; for, from that day, Not only to the sons of Abraham's loins Salvation shall be preached, but to the sons Of Abraham's faith wherever through the world; So in his seed all nations shall be blest.
So spake the Arch-Angel Michael; then paused, As at the world's great period; and our sire, Replete with joy and wonder, thus replied.
O Goodness infinite, Goodness immense!
That all this good of evil shall produce, And evil turn to good; more wonderful Than that which by creation first brought forth Light out of darkness!
Full of doubt I stand, Whether I should repent me now of sin By me done, and occasioned; or rejoice Much more, that much more good thereof shall spring; To God more glory, more good-will to Men From God, and over wrath grace shall abound.
But say, if our Deliverer up to Heaven Must re-ascend, what will betide the few His faithful, left among the unfaithful herd, The enemies of truth?
Who then shall guide His people, who defend?
Will they not deal Worse with his followers than with him they dealt?
What will they then But force the Spirit of Grace itself, and bind His consort Liberty?
what, but unbuild His living temples, built by faith to stand, Their own faith, not another's?
for, on earth, Who against faith and conscience can be heard Infallible?
He ended; and thus Adam last replied.
How soon hath thy prediction, Seer blest, Measured this transient world, the race of time, Till time stand fixed!
Beyond is all abyss, Eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
Greatly-instructed I shall hence depart; Greatly in peace of thought; and have my fill Of knowledge, what this vessel can contain; Beyond which was my folly to aspire.
To whom thus also the Angel last replied.
He ended, and they both descend the hill; Descended, Adam to the bower, where Eve Lay sleeping, ran before; but found her waked; And thus with words not sad she him received.
This further consolation yet secure I carry hence; though all by me is lost, Such favour I unworthy am vouchsafed, By me the Promised Seed shall all restore.
