{"id": "pg19_000", "title": "Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ by Lew Wallace", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2145", "tokens": 8192, "chars": 33534, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nThe Jebel es Zubleh is a mountain fifty miles and more in length,\nand so narrow that its tracery on the map gives it a likeness to\na caterpillar crawling from the south to the north. Standing on\nits red-and-white cliffs, and looking off under the path of the\nrising sun, one sees only the Desert of Arabia, where the east\nwinds, so hateful to vinegrowers of Jericho, have kept their\nplaygrounds since the beginning. Its feet are well covered by\nsands tossed from the Euphrates, there to lie, for the mountain\nis a wall to the pasture-lands of Moab and Ammon on the west--lands\nwhich else had been of the desert a part.\n\nThe Arab has impressed his language upon everything south and\neast of Judea, so, in his tongue, the old Jebel is the parent of\nnumberless wadies which, intersecting the Roman road--now a dim\nsuggestion of what once it was, a dusty path for Syrian pilgrims\nto and from Mecca--run their furrows, deepening as they go, to\npass the torrents of the rainy season into the Jordan, or their\nlast receptacle, the Dead Sea. Out of one of these wadies--or,\nmore particularly, out of that one which rises at the extreme end\nof the Jebel, and, extending east of north, becomes at length\nthe bed of the Jabbok River--a traveller passed, going to the\ntable-lands of the desert. To this person the attention of the\nreader is first besought.\n\nJudged by his appearance, he was quite forty-five years old.\nHis beard, once of the deepest black, flowing broadly over his\nbreast, was streaked with white. His face was brown as a parched\ncoffee-berry, and so hidden by a red kufiyeh (as the kerchief of\nthe head is at this day called by the children of the desert)\nas to be but in part visible. Now and then he raised his eyes,\nand they were large and dark. He was clad in the flowing garments\nso universal in the East; but their style may not be described\nmore particularly, for he sat under a miniature tent, and rode\na great white dromedary.\n\nIt may be doubted if the people of the West ever overcome the impression\nmade upon them by the first view of a camel equipped and loaded for\nthe desert. Custom, so fatal to other novelties, affects this feeling\nbut little. At the end of long journeys with caravans, after years of\nresidence with the Bedawin, the Western-born, wherever they may be,\nwill stop and wait the passing of the stately brute. The charm is\nnot in the figure, which not even love can make beautiful; nor in\nthe movement, the noiseless stepping, or the broad careen. As is\nthe kindness of the sea to a ship, so that of the desert to its\ncreature. It clothes him with all its mysteries; in such manner,\ntoo, that while we are looking at him we are thinking of them:\ntherein is the wonder. The animal which now came out of the wady\nmight well have claimed the customary homage. Its color and height;\nits breadth of foot; its bulk of body, not fat, but overlaid with\nmuscle; its long, slender neck, of swanlike curvature; the head,\nwide between the eyes, and tapering to a muzzle which a lady's\nbracelet might have almost clasped; its motion, step long and elastic,\ntread sure and soundless--all certified its Syrian blood, old as the\ndays of Cyrus, and absolutely priceless. There was the usual bridle,\ncovering the forehead with scarlet fringe, and garnishing the throat\nwith pendent brazen chains, each ending with a tinkling silver bell;\nbut to the bridle there was neither rein for the rider nor strap\nfor a driver. The furniture perched on the back was an invention\nwhich with any other people than of the East would have made the\ninventor renowned. It consisted of two wooden boxes, scarce four\nfeet in length, balanced so that one hung at each side; the inner\nspace, softly lined and carpeted, was arranged to allow the master\nto sit or lie half reclined; over it all was stretched a green\nawning. Broad back and breast straps, and girths, secured with\ncountless knots and ties, held the device in place. In such manner\nthe ingenious sons of Cush had contrived to make comfortable the\nsunburnt ways of the wilderness, along which lay their duty as\noften as their pleasure.\n\nWhen the dromedary lifted itself out of the last break of the wady,\nthe traveller had passed the boundary of El Belka, the ancient\nAmmon. It was morning-time. Before him was the sun, half curtained\nin fleecy mist; before him also spread the desert; not the realm\nof drifting sands, which was farther on, but the region where the\nherbage began to dwarf; where the surface is strewn with boulders\nof granite, and gray and brown stones, interspersed with languishing\nacacias and tufts of camel-grass. The oak, bramble, and arbutus\nlay behind, as if they had come to a line, looked over into the\nwell-less waste and crouched with fear.\n\nAnd now there was an end of path or road. More than ever the camel\nseemed insensibly driven; it lengthened and quickened its pace, its\nhead pointed straight towards the horizon; through the wide nostrils\nit drank the wind in great draughts. The litter swayed, and rose\nand fell like a boat in the waves. Dried leaves in occasional beds\nrustled underfoot. Sometimes a perfume like absinthe sweetened all\nthe air. Lark and chat and rock-swallow leaped to wing, and white\npartridges ran whistling and clucking out of the way. More rarely\na fox or a hyena quickened his gallop, to study the intruders at\na safe distance. Off to the right rose the hills of the Jebel,\nthe pearl-gray veil resting upon them changing momentarily into\na purple which the sun would make matchless a little later.\nOver their highest peaks a vulture sailed on broad wings into\nwidening circles. But of all these things the tenant under the\ngreen tent saw nothing, or, at least, made no sign of recognition.\nHis eyes were fixed and dreamy. The going of the man, like that of\nthe animal, was as one being led.\n\nFor two hours the dromedary swung forward, keeping the trot\nsteadily and the line due east. In that time the traveller never\nchanged his position, nor looked to the right or left. On the\ndesert, distance is not measured by miles or leagues, but by the\nsaat, or hour, and the manzil, or halt: three and a half leagues\nfill the former, fifteen or twenty-five the latter; but they are\nthe rates for the common camel. A carrier of the genuine Syrian\nstock can make three leagues easily. At full speed he overtakes\nthe ordinary winds. As one of the results of the rapid advance,\nthe face of the landscape underwent a change. The Jebel stretched\nalong the western horizon, like a pale-blue ribbon. A tell, or hummock\nof clay and cemented sand, arose here and there. Now and then basaltic\nstones lifted their round crowns, outposts of the mountain against the\nforces of the plain; all else, however, was sand, sometimes smooth as\nthe beaten beach, then heaped in rolling ridges; here chopped waves,\nthere long swells. So, too, the condition of the atmosphere changed.\nThe sun, high risen, had drunk his fill of dew and mist, and warmed\nthe breeze that kissed the wanderer under the awning; far and near\nhe was tinting the earth with faint milk-whiteness, and shimmering\nall the sky.\n\nTwo hours more passed without rest or deviation from the course.\nVegetation entirely ceased. The sand, so crusted on the surface\nthat it broke into rattling flakes at every step, held undisputed\nsway. The Jebel was out of view, and there was no landmark visible.\nThe shadow that before followed had now shifted to the north, and was\nkeeping even race with the objects which cast it; and as there was\nno sign of halting, the conduct of the traveller became each moment\nmore strange.\n\nNo one, be it remembered, seeks the desert for a pleasure-ground.\nLife and business traverse it by paths along which the bones of things\ndead are strewn as so many blazons. Such are the roads from well to\nwell, from pasture to pasture. The heart of the most veteran sheik\nbeats quicker when he finds himself alone in the pathless tracts.\nSo the man with whom we are dealing could not have been in search\nof pleasure; neither was his manner that of a fugitive; not once\ndid he look behind him. In such situations fear and curiosity are\nthe most common sensations; he was not moved by them. When men are\nlonely, they stoop to any companionship; the dog becomes a comrade,\nthe horse a friend, and it is no shame to shower them with caresses\nand speeches of love. The camel received no such token, not a touch,\nnot a word.\n\nExactly at noon the dromedary, of its own will, stopped, and uttered\nthe cry or moan, peculiarly piteous, by which its kind always protest\nagainst an overload, and sometimes crave attention and rest. The master\nthereupon bestirred himself, waking, as it were, from sleep. He threw\nthe curtains of the houdah up, looked at the sun, surveyed the country\non every side long and carefully, as if to identify an appointed place.\nSatisfied with the inspection, he drew a deep breath and nodded,\nmuch as to say, \"At last, at last!\" A moment after, he crossed\nhis hands upon his breast, bowed his head, and prayed silently.\nThe pious duty done, he prepared to dismount. From his throat\nproceeded the sound heard doubtless by the favorite camels of\nJob--Ikh! ikh!--the signal to kneel. Slowly the animal obeyed,\ngrunting the while. The rider then put his foot upon the slender\nneck, and stepped upon the sand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nThe man as now revealed was of admirable proportions, not so tall\nas powerful. Loosening the silken rope which held the kufiyeh on his\nhead, he brushed the fringed folds back until his face was bare--a\nstrong face, almost <DW64> in color; yet the low, broad forehead,\naquiline nose, the outer corners of the eyes turned slightly upward,\nthe hair profuse, straight, harsh, of metallic lustre, and falling\nto the shoulder in many plaits, were signs of origin impossible\nto disguise. So looked the Pharaohs and the later Ptolemies; so\nlooked Mizraim, father of the Egyptian race. He wore the kamis,\na white cotton shirt tight-sleeved, open in front, extending to\nthe ankles and embroidered down the collar and breast, over which\nwas thrown a brown woollen cloak, now, as in all probability\nit was then, called the aba, an outer garment with long skirt\nand short sleeves, lined inside with stuff of mixed cotton and\nsilk, edged all round with a margin of clouded yellow. His feet\nwere protected by sandals, attached by thongs of soft leather.\nA sash held the kamis to his waist. What was very noticeable,\nconsidering he was alone, and that the desert was the haunt of\nleopards and lions, and men quite as wild, he carried no arms,\nnot even the crooked stick used for guiding camels; wherefore we\nmay at least infer his errand peaceful, and that he was either\nuncommonly bold or under extraordinary protection.\n\nThe traveller's limbs were numb, for the ride had been long and\nwearisome; so he rubbed his hands and stamped his feet, and walked\nround the faithful servant, whose lustrous eyes were closing in calm\ncontent with the cud he had already found. Often, while making the\ncircuit, he paused, and, shading his eyes with his hands, examined the\ndesert to the extremest verge of vision; and always, when the survey\nwas ended, his face clouded with disappointment, slight, but enough\nto advise a shrewd spectator that he was there expecting company,\nif not by appointment; at the same time, the spectator would have\nbeen conscious of a sharpening of the curiosity to learn what the\nbusiness could be that required transaction in a place so far from\ncivilized abode.\n\nHowever disappointed, there could be little doubt of the stranger's\nconfidence in the coming of the expected company. In token thereof,\nhe went first to the litter, and, from the cot or box opposite\nthe one he had occupied in coming, produced a sponge and a\nsmall gurglet of water, with which he washed the eyes, face,\nand nostrils of the camel; that done, from the same depository he\ndrew a circular cloth, red-and white-striped, a bundle of rods,\nand a stout cane. The latter, after some manipulation, proved to\nbe a cunning device of lesser joints, one within another, which,\nwhen united together, formed a centre pole higher than his head.\nWhen the pole was planted, and the rods set around it, he spread\nthe cloth over them, and was literally at home--a home much smaller\nthan the habitations of emir and sheik, yet their counterpart in\nall other respects. From the litter again he brought a carpet or\nsquare rug, and covered the floor of the tent on the side from\nthe sun. That done, he went out, and once more, and with greater\ncare and more eager eyes, swept the encircling country. Except a\ndistant jackal, galloping across the plain, and an eagle flying\ntowards the Gulf of Akaba, the waste below, like the blue above\nit, was lifeless.\n\nHe turned to the camel, saying low, and in a tongue strange to the\ndesert, \"We are far from home, O racer with the swiftest winds--we are\nfar from home, but God is with us. Let us be patient.\"\n\nThen he took some beans from a pocket in the saddle, and put them\nin a bag made to hang below the animal's nose; and when he saw the\nrelish with which the good servant took to the food, he turned and\nagain scanned the world of sand, dim with the glow of the vertical\nsun.\n\n\"They will come,\" he said, calmly. \"He that led me is leading them.\nI will make ready.\"\n\nFrom the pouches which lined the interior of the cot, and from a\nwillow basket which was part of its furniture, he brought forth\nmaterials for a meal: platters close-woven of the fibres of\npalms; wine in small gurglets of skin; mutton dried and smoked;\nstoneless shami, or Syrian pomegranates; dates of El Shelebi,\nwondrous rich and grown in the nakhil, or palm orchards, of Central\nArabia; cheese, like David's \"slices of milk;\" and leavened bread\nfrom the city bakery--all which he carried and set upon the carpet\nunder the tent. As the final preparation, about the provisions he\nlaid three pieces of silk cloth, used among refined people of the\nEast to cover the knees of guests while at table--a circumstance\nsignificant of the number of persons who were to partake of his\nentertainment--the number he was awaiting.\n\nAll was now ready. He stepped out: lo! in the east a dark speck\non the face of the desert. He stood as if rooted to the ground;\nhis eyes dilated; his flesh crept chilly, as if touched by\nsomething supernatural. The speck grew; became large as a hand;\nat length assumed defined proportions. A little later, full into\nview swung a duplication of his own dromedary, tall and white,\nand bearing a houdah, the travelling litter of Hindostan. Then the\nEgyptian crossed his hands upon his breast, and looked to heaven.\n\n\"God only is great!\" he exclaimed, his eyes full of tears, his soul\nin awe.\n\nThe stranger drew nigh--at last stopped. Then he, too, seemed just\nwaking. He beheld the kneeling camel, the tent, and the man standing\nprayerfully at the door. He crossed his hands, bent his head, and\nprayed silently; after which, in a little while, he stepped from\nhis camel's neck to the sand, and advanced towards the Egyptian,\nas did the Egyptian towards him. A moment they looked at each other;\nthen they embraced--that is, each threw his right arm over the\nother's shoulder, and the left round the side, placing his chin\nfirst upon the left, then upon the right breast.\n\n\"Peace be with thee, O servant of the true God!\" the stranger said.\n\n\"And to thee, O brother of the true faith!--to thee peace and\nwelcome,\" the Egyptian replied, with fervor.\n\nThe new-comer was tall and gaunt, with lean face, sunken eyes,\nwhite hair and beard, and a complexion between the hue of cinnamon\nand bronze. He, too, was unarmed. His costume was Hindostani;\nover the skull-cap a shawl was wound in great folds, forming a\nturban; his body garments were in the style of the Egyptian's,\nexcept that the aba was shorter, exposing wide flowing breeches\ngathered at the ankles. In place of sandals, his feet were clad\nin half-slippers of red leather, pointed at the toes. Save the\nslippers, the costume from head to foot was of white linen. The air\nof the man was high, stately, severe. Visvamitra, the greatest of\nthe ascetic heroes of the Iliad of the East, had in him a perfect\nrepresentative. He might have been called a Life drenched with the\nwisdom of Brahma--Devotion Incarnate. Only in his eyes was there\nproof of humanity; when he lifted his face from the Egyptian's\nbreast, they were glistening with tears.\n\n\"God only is great!\" he exclaimed, when the embrace was finished.\n\n\"And blessed are they that serve him!\" the Egyptian answered,\nwondering at the paraphrase of his own exclamation. \"But let us\nwait,\" he added, \"let us wait; for see, the other comes yonder!\"\n\nThey looked to the north, where, already plain to view, a third\ncamel, of the whiteness of the others, came careening like a ship.\nThey waited, standing together--waited until the new-comer arrived,\ndismounted, and advanced towards them.\n\n\"Peace to you, O my brother!\" he said, while embracing the Hindoo.\n\nAnd the Hindoo answered, \"God's will be done!\"\n\nThe last comer was all unlike his friends: his frame was slighter;\nhis complexion white; a mass of waving light hair was a perfect\ncrown for his small but beautiful head; the warmth of his dark-blue\neyes certified a delicate mind, and a cordial, brave nature. He was\nbareheaded and unarmed. Under the folds of the Tyrian blanket which\nhe wore with unconscious grace appeared a tunic, short-sleeved and\nlow-necked, gathered to the waist by a band, and reaching nearly to\nthe knee; leaving the neck, arms, and legs bare. Sandals guarded\nhis feet. Fifty years, probably more, had spent themselves upon\nhim, with no other effect, apparently, than to tinge his demeanor\nwith gravity and temper his words with forethought. The physical\norganization and the brightness of soul were untouched. No need to\ntell the student from what kindred he was sprung; if he came not\nhimself from the groves of Athene', his ancestry did.\n\nWhen his arms fell from the Egyptian, the latter said, with a\ntremulous voice, \"The Spirit brought me first; wherefore I know\nmyself chosen to be the servant of my brethren. The tent is set,\nand the bread is ready for the breaking. Let me perform my office.\"\n\nTaking each by the hand, he led them within, and removed their\nsandals and washed their feet, and he poured water upon their\nhands, and dried them with napkins.\n\nThen, when he had laved his own hands, he said, \"Let us take care\nof ourselves, brethren, as our service requires, and eat, that we\nmay be strong for what remains of the day's duty. While we eat,\nwe will each learn who the others are, and whence they come,\nand how they are called.\"\n\nHe took them to the repast, and seated them so that they faced\neach other. Simultaneously their heads bent forward, their hands\ncrossed upon their breasts, and, speaking together, they said\naloud this simple grace:\n\n\"Father of all--God!--what we have here is of thee; take our thanks\nand bless us, that we may continue to do thy will.\"\n\nWith the last word they raised their eyes, and looked at each other\nin wonder. Each had spoken in a language never before heard by the\nothers; yet each understood perfectly what was said. Their souls\nthrilled with divine emotion; for by the miracle they recognized\nthe Divine Presence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nTo speak in the style of the period, the meeting just described took\nplace in the year of Rome 747. The month was December, and winter\nreigned over all the regions east of the Mediterranean. Such as\nride upon the desert in this season go not far until smitten\nwith a keen appetite. The company under the little tent were not\nexceptions to the rule. They were hungry, and ate heartily; and,\nafter the wine, they talked.\n\n\"To a wayfarer in a strange land nothing is so sweet as to hear his\nname on the tongue of a friend,\" said the Egyptian, who assumed to be\npresident of the repast. \"Before us lie many days of companionship.\nIt is time we knew each other. So, if it be agreeable, he who came\nlast shall be first to speak.\"\n\nThen, slowly at first, like one watchful of himself, the Greek\nbegan:\n\n\"What I have to tell, my brethren, is so strange that I hardly\nknow where to begin or what I may with propriety speak. I do not\nyet understand myself. The most I am sure of is that I am doing a\nMaster's will, and that the service is a constant ecstasy. When I\nthink of the purpose I am sent to fulfil, there is in me a joy so\ninexpressible that I know the will is God's.\"\n\nThe good man paused, unable to proceed, while the others, in sympathy\nwith his feelings, dropped their gaze.\n\n\"Far to the west of this,\" he began again, \"there is a land which\nmay never be forgotten; if only because the world is too much its\ndebtor, and because the indebtedness is for things that bring to men\ntheir purest pleasures. I will say nothing of the arts, nothing of\nphilosophy, of eloquence, of poetry, of war: O my brethren, hers is\nthe glory which must shine forever in perfected letters, by which\nHe we go to find and proclaim will be made known to all the earth.\nThe land I speak of is Greece. I am Gaspar, son of Cleanthes the\nAthenian.\n\n\"My people,\" he continued, \"were given wholly to study, and from them\nI derived the same passion. It happens that two of our philosophers,\nthe very greatest of the many, teach, one the doctrine of a Soul\nin every man, and its Immortality; the other the doctrine of One\nGod, infinitely just. From the multitude of subjects about which\nthe schools were disputing, I separated them, as alone worth the\nlabor of solution; for I thought there was a relation between God\nand the soul as yet unknown. On this theme the mind can reason to\na point, a dead, impassable wall; arrived there, all that remains\nis to stand and cry aloud for help. So I did; but no voice came\nto me over the wall. In despair, I tore myself from the cities\nand the schools.\"\n\nAt these words a grave smile of approval lighted the gaunt face\nof the Hindoo.\n\n\"In the northern part of my country--in Thessaly,\" the Greek\nproceeded to say, \"there is a mountain famous as the home of the\ngods, where Theus, whom my countrymen believe supreme, has his\nabode; Olympus is its name. Thither I betook myself. I found a\ncave in a hill where the mountain, coming from the west, bends to\nthe southeast; there I dwelt, giving myself up to meditation--no,\nI gave myself up to waiting for what every breath was a prayer--for\nrevelation. Believing in God, invisible yet supreme, I also believed\nit possible so to yearn for him with all my soul that he would take\ncompassion and give me answer.\"\n\n\"And he did--he did!\" exclaimed the Hindoo, lifting his hands from\nthe silken cloth upon his lap.\n\n\"Hear me, brethren,\" said the Greek, calming himself with an effort.\n\"The door of my hermitage looks over an arm of the sea, over the\nThermaic Gulf. One day I saw a man flung overboard from a ship\nsailing by. He swam ashore. I received and took care of him.\nHe was a Jew, learned in the history and laws of his people;\nand from him I came to know that the God of my prayers did\nindeed exist; and had been for ages their lawmaker, ruler,\nand king. What was that but the Revelation I dreamed of? My\nfaith had not been fruitless; God answered me!\"\n\n\"As he does all who cry to him with such faith,\" said the Hindoo.\n\n\"But, alas!\" the Egyptian added, \"how few are there wise enough\nto know when he answers them!\"\n\n\"That was not all,\" the Greek continued. \"The man so sent to me\ntold me more. He said the prophets who, in the ages which followed\nthe first revelation, walked and talked with God, declared he would\ncome again. He gave me the names of the prophets, and from the\nsacred books quoted their very language. He told me, further,\nthat the second coming was at hand--was looked for momentarily\nin Jerusalem.\"\n\nThe Greek paused, and the brightness of his countenance faded.\n\n\"It is true,\" he said, after a little--\"it is true the man told\nme that as God and the revelation of which he spoke had been for\nthe Jews alone, so it would be again. He that was to come should\nbe King of the Jews. 'Had he nothing for the rest of the world?'\nI asked. 'No,' was the answer, given in a proud voice--'No, we are\nhis chosen people.' The answer did not crush my hope. Why should\nsuch a God limit his love and benefaction to one land, and, as it\nwere, to one family? I set my heart upon knowing. At last I broke\nthrough the man's pride, and found that his fathers had been\nmerely chosen servants to keep the Truth alive, that the world\nmight at last know it and be saved. When the Jew was gone, and I\nwas alone again, I chastened my soul with a new prayer--that I\nmight be permitted to see the King when he was come, and worship\nhim. One night I sat by the door of my cave trying to get nearer\nthe mysteries of my existence, knowing which is to know God;\nsuddenly, on the sea below me, or rather in the darkness that\ncovered its face, I saw a star begin to burn; slowly it arose and\ndrew nigh, and stood over the hill and above my door, so that its\nlight shone full upon me. I fell down, and slept, and in my dream\nI heard a voice say:\n\n\"'O Gaspar! Thy faith hath conquered! Blessed art thou! With two\nothers, come from the uttermost parts of the earth, thou shalt see\nHim that is promised, and be a witness for him, and the occasion of\ntestimony in his behalf. In the morning arise, and go meet them,\nand keep trust in the Spirit that shall guide thee.'\n\n\"And in the morning I awoke with the Spirit as a light within me\nsurpassing that of the sun. I put off my hermit's garb, and dressed\nmyself as of old. From a hiding-place I took the treasure which I\nhad brought from the city. A ship went sailing past. I hailed it,\nwas taken aboard, and landed at Antioch. There I bought the camel\nand his furniture. Through the gardens and orchards that enamel\nthe banks of the Orontes, I journeyed to Emesa, Damascus, Bostra,\nand Philadelphia; thence hither. And so, O brethren, you have my\nstory. Let me now listen to you.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nThe Egyptian and the Hindoo looked at each other; the former waved\nhis hand; the latter bowed, and began:\n\n\"Our brother has spoken well. May my words be as wise.\"\n\nHe broke off, reflected a moment, then resumed:\n\n\"You may know me, brethren, by the name of Melchior. I speak to\nyou in a language which, if not the oldest in the world, was at\nleast the soonest to be reduced to letters--I mean the Sanscrit\nof India. I am a Hindoo by birth. My people were the first to\nwalk in the fields of knowledge, first to divide them, first to\nmake them beautiful. Whatever may hereafter befall, the four\nVedas must live, for they are the primal fountains of religion and\nuseful intelligence. From them were derived the Upa-Vedas, which,\ndelivered by Brahma, treat of medicine, archery, architecture,\nmusic, and the four-and-sixty mechanical arts; the Ved-Angas,\nrevealed by inspired saints, and devoted to astronomy, grammar,\nprosody, pronunciation, charms and incantations, religious rites\nand ceremonies; the Up-Angas, written by the sage Vyasa, and given\nto cosmogony, chronology, and geography; therein also are the\nRamayana and the Mahabharata, heroic poems, designed for the\nperpetuation of our gods and demi-gods. Such, O brethren, are the\nGreat Shastras, or books of sacred ordinances. They are dead to me\nnow; yet through all time they will serve to illustrate the budding\ngenius of my race. They were promises of quick perfection. Ask you\nwhy the promises failed? Alas! the books themselves closed all\nthe gates of progress. Under pretext of care for the creature,\ntheir authors imposed the fatal principle that a man must not\naddress himself to discovery or invention, as Heaven had provided\nhim all things needful. When that condition became a sacred law,\nthe lamp of Hindoo genius was let down a well, where ever since\nit has lighted narrow walls and bitter waters.\n\n\"These allusions, brethren, are not from pride, as you will\nunderstand when I tell you that the Shastras teach a Supreme\nGod called Brahm; also, that the Puranas, or sacred poems of\nthe Up-Angas, tell us of Virtue and Good Works, and of the Soul.\nSo, if my brother will permit the saying\"--the speaker bowed\ndeferentially to the Greek--\"ages before his people were known,\nthe two great ideas, God and the Soul, had absorbed all the forces\nof the Hindoo mind. In further explanation let me say that Brahm\nis taught, by the same sacred books, as a Triad--Brahma, Vishnu,\nand Shiva. Of these, Brahma is said to have been the author of our\nrace; which, in course of creation, he divided into four castes.\nFirst, he peopled the worlds below and the heavens above; next,\nhe made the earth ready for terrestrial spirits; then from his\nmouth proceeded the Brahman caste, nearest in likeness to himself,\nhighest and noblest, sole teachers of the Vedas, which at the same time\nflowed from his lips in finished state, perfect in all useful knowledge.\nFrom his arms next issued the Kshatriya, or warriors; from his breast,\nthe seat of life, came the Vaisya, or producers--shepherds, farmers,\nmerchants; from his foot, in sign of degradation, sprang the Sudra,\nor serviles, doomed to menial duties for the other classes--serfs,\ndomestics, laborers, artisans. Take notice, further, that the law,\nso born with them, forbade a man of one caste becoming a member of\nanother; the Brahman could not enter a lower order; if he violated\nthe laws of his own grade, he became an outcast, lost to all but\noutcasts like himself.\"\n\nAt this point, the imagination of the Greek, flashing forward\nupon all the consequences of such a degradation, overcame his\neager attention, and he exclaimed, \"In such a state, O brethren,\nwhat mighty need of a loving God!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" added the Egyptian, \"of a loving God like ours.\"\n\nThe brows of the Hindoo knit painfully; when the emotion was spent,\nhe proceeded, in a softened voice.\n\n\"I was born a Brahman. My life, consequently, was ordered down to\nits least act, its last hour. My first draught of nourishment;\nthe giving me my compound name; taking me out the first time to\nsee the sun; investing me with the triple thread by which I became\none of the twice-born; my induction into the first order--were all\ncelebrated with sacred texts and rigid ceremonies. I might not walk,\neat, drink, or sleep without danger of violating a rule. And the\npenalty, O brethren, the penalty was to my soul! According to the\ndegrees of omission, my soul went to one of the heavens--Indra's the\nlowest, Brahma's the highest; or it was driven back to become the\nlife of a worm, a fly, a fish, or a brute. The reward for perfect\nobservance was Beatitude, or absorption into the being of Brahm,\nwhich was not existence as much as absolute rest.\"\n\nThe Hindoo gave himself a moment's thought; proceeding, he said:\n\"The part of a Brahman's life called the first order is his student\nlife. When I was ready to enter the second order--that is to say,\nwhen I was ready to marry and become a householder--I questioned\neverything, even Brahm; I was a heretic. From the depths of the well\nI had discovered a light above, and yearned to go up and see what\nall it shone upon. At last--ah, with what years of toil!--I stood\nin the perfect day, and beheld the principle of life, the element\nof religion, the link between the soul and God--Love!\"\n\nThe shrunken face of the good man kindled visibly, and he clasped\nhis hands with force. A silence ensued, during which the others\nlooked at him, the Greek through tears. At length he resumed:\n\n\"The happiness of love is in action; its test is what one is\nwilling to do for others. I could not rest. Brahm had filled\nthe world with so much wretchedness. The Sudra appealed to me,\nso did the countless devotees and victims. The island of Ganga\nLagor lies where the sacred waters of the Ganges disappear in\nthe Indian Ocean. Thither I betook myself. In the shade of the\ntemple built there to the sage Kapila, in a union of prayers\nwith the disciples whom the sanctified memory of the holy man\nkeeps around his house, I thought to find rest. But twice every\nyear came pilgrimages of Hindoos seeking the purification of the\nwaters. Their misery strengthened my love. Against its impulse to\nspeak I clenched my jaws; for one word against Brahm or the Triad\nor the Shastras would doom me; one act of kindness to the outcast\nBrahmans who now and then dragged themselves to die on the burning\nsands--a blessing said, a cup of water given--and I became one of them,\nlost to family, country, privileges, caste. The love conquered! I\nspoke to the disciples in the temple; they drove me out. I spoke\nto the pilgrims; they stoned me from the island. On the highways\nI attempted to preach; my hearers fled from me, or sought my life.\nIn all India, finally, there was not a place in which I could find\npeace or safety--not even among the outcasts, for, though fallen,\nthey were still believers in Brahm. In my extremity, I looked for\na solitude in which to hide from all but God. I followed the Ganges\nto its source, far up in the Himalayas. When I entered the pass at\nHurdwar, where the river, in unstained purity, leaps to its course\nthrough the muddy lowlands, I prayed for my race, and thought myself\nlost to them forever. Through gorges, over cliffs, across glaciers,\nby peaks that seemed star-high, I made my way to the Lang Tso, a\nlake of marvellous beauty, asleep at the feet of the Tise Gangri,\nthe Gurla, and the Kailas Parbot, giants which flaunt their crowns\nof snow everlastingly\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}
{"id": "pg19_001", "title": "Clayhanger by Arnold Bennett", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21249", "tokens": 8192, "chars": 35185, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nCHAPTER ONE.\n\nBOOK ONE--HIS VOCATION.\n\nTHE LAST OF A SCHOOLBOY.\n\nEdwin Clayhanger stood on the steep-sloping, red-bricked canal bridge,\nin the valley between Bursley and its suburb Hillport.  In that\nneighbourhood the Knype and Mersey canal formed the western boundary of\nthe industrialism of the Five Towns.  To the east rose pitheads,\nchimneys, and kilns, tier above tier, dim in their own mists.  To the\nwest, Hillport Fields, grimed but possessing authentic hedgerows and\nwinding paths, mounted broadly up to the sharp ridge on which stood\nHillport Church, a landmark.  Beyond the ridge, and partly protected by\nit from the driving smoke of the Five Towns, lay the fine and ancient\nTory borough of Oldcastle, from whose historic Middle School Edwin\nClayhanger was now walking home.  The fine and ancient Tory borough\nprovided education for the whole of the Five Towns, but the relentless\nignorance of its prejudices had blighted the district.  A hundred years\nearlier the canal had only been obtained after a vicious Parliamentary\nfight between industry and the fine and ancient borough, which saw in\ncanals a menace to its importance as a centre of traffic.  Fifty years\nearlier the fine and ancient borough had succeeded in forcing the\ngreatest railway line in England to run through unpopulated country five\nmiles off instead of through the Five Towns, because it loathed the mere\nconception of a railway.  And now, people are inquiring why the Five\nTowns, with a railway system special to itself, is characterised by a\nperhaps excessive provincialism.  These interesting details have\neverything to do with the history of Edwin Clayhanger, as they have\neverything to do with the history of each of the two hundred thousand\nsouls in the Five Towns.  Oldcastle guessed not the vast influences of\nits sublime stupidity.\n\nIt was a breezy Friday in July 1872.  The canal, which ran north and\nsouth, reflected a blue and white sky.  Towards the bridge, from the\nnorth came a long narrow canal-boat roofed with tarpaulins; and towards\nthe bridge, from the south came a similar craft, sluggishly creeping.\nThe towing-path was a morass of sticky brown mud, for, in the way of\nrain, that year was breaking the records of a century and a half.\nThirty yards in front of each boat an unhappy skeleton of a horse\nfloundered its best in the quagmire.  The honest endeavour of one of the\nanimals received a frequent tonic from a bare-legged girl of seven who\nheartily curled a whip about its crooked large-jointed legs.  The ragged\nand filthy child danced in the rich mud round the horse's flanks with\nthe simple joy of one who had been rewarded for good behaviour by the\nunrestricted use of a whip for the first time.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTWO.\n\nEdwin, with his elbows on the stone parapet of the bridge, stared\nuninterested at the spectacle of the child, the whip, and the skeleton.\nHe was not insensible to the piquancy of the pageant of life, but his\nmind was preoccupied with grave and heavy matters.  He had left school\nthat day, and what his eyes saw as he leaned on the bridge was not a\nwilling beast and a gladdened infant, but the puzzling world and the\nadvance guard of its problems bearing down on him.  Slim, gawky, untidy,\nfair, with his worn black-braided clothes, and slung over his shoulders\nin a bursting satchel the last load of his schoolbooks, and on his\nbright, rough hair a shapeless cap whose lining protruded behind, he had\nthe extraordinary wistful look of innocence and simplicity which marks\nmost boys of sixteen.  It seemed rather a shame, it seemed even tragic,\nthat this naive, simple creature, with his straightforward and friendly\neyes so eager to believe appearances, this creature immaculate of\nworldly experience, must soon be transformed into a man, wary,\nincredulous, detracting.  Older eyes might have wept at the simplicity\nof those eyes.\n\nThis picture of Edwin as a wistful innocent would have made Edwin laugh.\nHe had been seven years at school, and considered himself a hardened\nsort of brute, free of illusions.  And he sometimes thought that he\ncould judge the world better than most neighbouring mortals.\n\n\"Hello!  The Sunday!\" he murmured, without turning his eyes.\n\nAnother boy, a little younger and shorter, and clothed in a superior\nuntidiness, had somehow got on to the bridge, and was leaning with his\nback against the parapet which supported Edwin's elbows.  His eyes were\nfranker and simpler even than the eyes of Edwin, and his lips seemed to\nbe permanently parted in a good-humoured smile.  His name was Charlie\nOrgreave, but at school he was invariably called \"the Sunday\"--not\n\"Sunday,\" but \"the Sunday\"--and nobody could authoritatively explain how\nhe had come by the nickname.  Its origin was lost in the prehistoric\nages of his childhood.  He and Edwin had been chums for several years.\nThey had not sworn fearful oaths of loyalty; they did not constitute a\nsecret society; they had not even pricked forearms and written certain\nwords in blood; for these rites are only performed at Harrow, and\npossibly at the Oldcastle High School, which imitates Harrow.  Their\nfellowship meant chiefly that they spent a great deal of time together,\ninstinctively and unconsciously enjoying each other's mere presence, and\nthat in public arguments they always reinforced each other, whatever the\ndegree of intellectual dishonesty thereby necessitated.\n\n\"I'll bet you mine gets to the bridge first,\" said the Sunday.  With an\ningenious movement of the shoulders he arranged himself so that the\nparapet should bear the weight of his satchel.\n\nEdwin Clayhanger slowly turned round, and perceived that the object\nwhich the Sunday had appropriated as \"his\" was the other canal-boat,\nadvancing from the south.\n\n\"Horse or boat?\" asked Edwin.\n\n\"Boat's nose, of course,\" said the Sunday.\n\n\"Well,\" said Edwin, having surveyed the unconscious competitors, and\ncounting on the aid of the whipping child, \"I don't mind laying you\nfive.\"\n\n\"That be damned for a tale!\" protested the Sunday.  \"We said we'd never\nbet less than ten--you know that.\"\n\n\"Yes, but--\" Edwin hesitatingly drawled.\n\n\"But what?\"\n\n\"All right.  Ten,\" Edwin agreed.  \"But it's not fair.  You've got a rare\nstart on me.\"\n\n\"Rats!\" said the Sunday, with finality.  In the pronunciation of this\nword the difference between his accent and Edwin's came out clear.  The\nSunday's accent was less local; there was a hint of a short \"e\" sound in\nthe \"a,\" and a briskness about the consonants, that Edwin could never\nhave compassed.  The Sunday's accent was as carelessly superior as his\nclothes.  Evidently the Sunday had some one at home who had not learnt\nthe art of speech in the Five Towns.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTHREE.\n\nHe began to outline a scheme, in which perpendicular expectoration\nfigured, for accurately deciding the winner, and a complicated argument\nmight have ensued about this, had it not soon become apparent that\nEdwin's boat was going to be handsomely beaten, despite the joyous\nefforts of the little child.  The horse that would die but would not\ngive up, was only saved from total subsidence at every step by his\nindomitable if aged spirit.  Edwin handed over the ten marbles even\nbefore the other boat had arrived at the bridge.\n\n\"Here,\" he said.  \"And you may as well have these, too,\" adding five\nmore to the ten, all he possessed.  They were not the paltry marble of\nto-day, plaything of infants, but the majestic \"rinker,\" black with\nwhite spots, the king of marbles in an era when whole populations\npractised the game.  Edwin looked at them half regretfully as they lay\nin the Sunday's hands.  They seemed prodigious wealth in those hands,\nand he felt somewhat as a condemned man might feel who bequeaths his\njewels on the scaffold.  Then there was a rattle, and a tumour grew out\nlarger on the Sunday's thigh.\n\nThe winning boat, long preceded by its horse, crawled under the bridge\nand passed northwards to the sea, laden with crates of earthenware.  And\nthen the loser, with the little girl's father and mother and her\nbrothers and sisters, and her kitchen, drawing-room, and bedroom, and\nher smoking chimney and her memories and all that was hers, in the stern\nof it, slid beneath the boys' down-turned faces while the whip cracked\naway beyond the bridge.  They could see, between the whitened\ntarpaulins, that the deep belly of the craft was filled with clay.\n\n\"Where does that there clay come from?\" asked Edwin.  For not merely was\nhe honestly struck by a sudden new curiosity, but it was meet for him to\nbehave like a man now, and to ask manly questions.\n\n\"Runcorn,\" said the Sunday scornfully.  \"Can't you see it painted all\nover the boat?\"\n\n\"Why do they bring clay all the way from Runcorn?\"\n\n\"They don't bring it from Runcorn.  They bring it from Cornwall.  It\ncomes round by sea--see?\"  He laughed.\n\n\"Who told you?\"  Edwin roughly demanded.\n\n\"Anybody knows that!\" said the Sunday grandly, but always maintaining\nhis gay smile.\n\n\"Seems devilish funny to me,\" Edwin murmured, after reflection, \"that\nthey should bring clay all that roundabout way just to make crocks of it\nhere.  Why should they choose just this place to make crocks in?  I\nalways understood--\"\n\n\"Oh!  Come on!\" the Sunday cut him short.  \"It's blessed well one\no'clock and after!\"\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nFOUR.\n\nThey climbed the long bank from the canal up to the Manor Farm, at which\nhigh point their roads diverged, one path leading direct to Bleakridge\nwhere Orgreave lived, and the other zigzagging down through neglected\npasturage into Bursley proper.  Usually they parted here without a word,\ntaking pride in such Spartan taciturnity, and they would doubtless have\ndone the same this morning also, though it were fifty-fold their last\nwalk together as two schoolboys.  But an incident intervened.\n\n\"Hold on!\" cried the Sunday.\n\nTo the south of them, a mile and a half off, in the wreathing mist of\nthe Cauldon Bar Ironworks, there was a yellow gleam that even the\ncapricious sunlight could not kill, and then two rivers of fire sprang\nfrom the gleam and ran in a thousand delicate and lovely hues down the\nside of a mountain of refuse.  They were emptying a few tons of molten\nslag at the Cauldon Bar Ironworks.  The two rivers hung slowly dying in\nthe mists of smoke.  They reddened and faded, and you thought they had\nvanished, and you could see them yet, and then they escaped the baffled\neye, unless a cloud aided them for a moment against the sun; and their\nephemeral but enchanting beauty had expired for ever.\n\n\"Now!\" said Edwin sharply.\n\n\"One minute ten seconds,\" said the Sunday, who had snatched out his\nwatch, an inestimable contrivance with a centre-seconds hand.  \"By Jove!\nThat was a good 'un.\"\n\nA moment later two smaller boys, both laden with satchels, appeared over\nthe brow from the canal.\n\n\"Let's wait a jiff,\" said the Sunday to Edwin, and as the smaller boys\nshowed no hurry he bawled out to them across the intervening\ncinder-waste: \"Run!\"  They ran.  They were his younger brothers, Johnnie\nand Jimmie.  \"Take this and hook it!\" he commanded, passing the strap of\nhis satchel over his head as they came up.  In fatalistic silence they\nobeyed the smiling tyrant.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\"  Edwin asked.\n\n\"I'm coming down your way a bit.\"\n\n\"But I thought you said you were peckish.\"\n\n\"I shall eat three slices of beef instead of my usual brace,\" said the\nSunday carelessly.\n\nEdwin was touched.  And the Sunday was touched, because he knew he had\ntouched Edwin.  After all, this was a solemn occasion.  But neither\nwould overtly admit that its solemnity had affected him.  Hence, first\none and then the other began to skim stones with vicious force over the\nsurface of the largest of the three ponds that gave interest to the\nManor Farm.  When they had thus proved to themselves that the day\ndiffered in no manner from any other breaking-up day, they went forward.\n\nOn their left were two pitheads whose double wheels revolved rapidly in\nsmooth silence, and the puffing engine-house and all the trucks and gear\nof a large ironstone mine.  On their right was the astonishing farm,\nwith barns and ricks and cornfields complete, seemingly quite unaware of\nits forlorn oddness in that foul arena of manufacture.  In front, on a\nlittle hill in the vast valley, was spread out the Indian-red\narchitecture of Bursley--tall chimneys and rounded ovens, schools, the\nnew scarlet market, the grey tower of the old church, the high spire of\nthe evangelical church, the low spire of the church of genuflexions, and\nthe crimson chapels, and rows of little red houses with amber\nchimney-pots, and the gold angel of the blackened Town Hall topping the\nwhole.  The sedate reddish browns and reds of the composition, all\nnetted in flowing scarves of smoke, harmonised exquisitely with the\nchill blues of the chequered sky.  Beauty was achieved, and none saw it.\n\nThe boys descended without a word through the brick-strewn pastures,\nwhere a horse or two cropped the short grass.  At the railway bridge,\nwhich carried a branch mineral line over the path, they exchanged a\nbrief volley of words with the working-lads who always played\npitch-and-toss there in the dinner-hour; and the Sunday added to the\ncollection of shawds and stones lodged on the under ledges of the low\niron girders.  A strange boy, he had sworn to put ten thousand stones on\nthose ledges before he died, or perish in the attempt.  Hence Edwin\nsometimes called him \"Old Perish-in-the-attempt.\"  A little farther on\nthe open gates of a manufactory disclosed six men playing the noble game\nof rinkers on a smooth patch of ground near the weighing machine.  These\nsix men were Messieurs Ford, Carter, and Udall, the three partners\nowning the works, and three of their employees.  They were celebrated\nmarble-players, and the boys stayed to watch them as, bending with one\nknee almost touching the earth, they shot the rinkers from their stubby\nthumbs with a canon-like force and precision that no boy could ever hope\nto equal.  \"By gum!\" mumbled Edwin involuntarily, when an impossible\nshot was accomplished; and the bearded shooter, pleased by this tribute\nfrom youth, twisted his white apron into a still narrower ring round his\nwaist.  Yet Edwin was not thinking about the game.  He was thinking\nabout a battle that lay before him, and how he would be weakened in the\nfight by the fact that in the last school examination, Charlie Orgreave,\nyounger than himself by a year, had ousted him from the second place in\nthe school.  The report in his pocket said: \"Position in class next\nterm: third;\" whereas he had been second since the beginning of the\nyear.  There would of course be no \"next term\" for him, but the report\nremained.  A youth who has come to grips with that powerful enemy, his\nfather, cannot afford to be handicapped by even such a trifle as a\nreport entirely irrelevant to the struggle.\n\nSuddenly Charlie Orgreave gave a curt nod, and departed, in nonchalant\ngood-humour, doubtless considering that to accompany his chum any\nfarther would be to be guilty of girlish sentimentality.  And Edwin\nnodded with equal curtness and made off slowly into the maze of Bursley.\nThe thought in his heart was: \"I'm on my own, now.  I've got to face it\nnow, by myself.\"  And he felt that not merely his father, but the\nleagued universe, was against him.\n\n\n\nVOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWO.\n\nTHE FLAME.\n\nThe various agencies which society has placed at the disposal of a\nparent had been at work on Edwin in one way or another for at least a\ndecade, in order to equip him for just this very day when he should step\ninto the world.  The moment must therefore be regarded as dramatic, the\nfirst crucial moment of an experiment long and elaborately prepared.\nKnowledge was admittedly the armour and the weapon of one about to try\nconclusions with the world, and many people for many years had been\nengaged in providing Edwin with knowledge.  He had received, in fact, \"a\ngood education\"--or even, as some said, \"a thoroughly sound education;\"\nassuredly as complete an equipment of knowledge as could be obtained in\nthe county, for the curriculum of the Oldcastle High School was less in\naccord with common sense than that of the Middle School.\n\nHe knew, however, nothing of natural history, and in particular of\nhimself, of the mechanism of the body and mind, through which his soul\nhad to express and fulfil itself.  Not one word of information about\neither physiology or psychology had ever been breathed to him, nor had\nit ever occurred to any one around him that such information was\nneedful.  And as no one had tried to explain to him the mysteries which\nhe carried about with him inside that fair skin of his, so no one had\ntried to explain to him the mysteries by which he was hemmed in, either\nmystically through religion, or rationally through philosophy.  Never in\nchapel or at Sunday school had a difficulty been genuinely faced.  And\nas for philosophy, he had not the slightest conception of what it meant.\nHe imagined that a philosopher was one who made the best of a bad job,\nand he had never heard the word used in any other sense.  He had great\npotential intellectual curiosity, but nobody had thought to stimulate it\nby even casually telling him that the finest minds of humanity had been\ntrying to systematise the mysteries for quite twenty-five centuries.  Of\nphysical science he had been taught nothing, save a grotesque perversion\nto the effect that gravity was a force which drew things towards the\ncentre of the earth.  In the matter of chemistry it had been practically\ndemonstrated to him scores of times, so that he should never forget this\ngrand basic truth, that sodium and potassium may be relied upon to fizz\nflamingly about on a surface of water.  Of geology he was perfectly\nignorant, though he lived in a district whose whole livelihood depended\non the scientific use of geological knowledge, and though the existence\nof Oldcastle itself was due to a freak of the earth's crust which\ngeologists call a \"fault.\"\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTWO.\n\nGeography had been one of his strong points.  He was aware of the rivers\nof Asia in their order, and of the principal products of Uruguay; and he\ncould name the capitals of nearly all the United States.  But he had\nnever been instructed for five minutes in the geography of his native\ncounty, of which he knew neither the boundaries nor the rivers nor the\nterrene characteristics.  He could have drawn a map of the Orinoco, but\nhe could not have found the Trent in a day's march; he did not even know\nwhere his drinking-water came from.  That geographical considerations\nare the cause of all history had never been hinted to him, nor that\nhistory bears immediately upon modern life and bore on his own life.\nFor him history hung unsupported and unsupporting in the air.  In the\ncourse of his school career he had several times approached the\nnineteenth century, but it seemed to him that for administrative reasons\nhe was always being dragged back again to the Middle Ages.  Once his\nform had \"got\" as far as the infancy of his own father, and concerning\nthis period he had learnt that \"great dissatisfaction prevailed among\nthe labouring classes, who were led to believe by mischievous\ndemagogues,\" etcetera.  But the next term he was recoiling round Henry\nthe Eighth, who \"was a skilful warrior and politician,\" but \"unfortunate\nin his domestic relations;\" and so to Elizabeth, than whom \"few\nsovereigns have been so much belied, but her character comes out\nunscathed after the closest examination.\"  History indeed resolved\nitself into a series of more or less sanguinary events arbitrarily\ngrouped under the names of persons who had to be identified with the\nassistance of numbers.  Neither of the development of national life, nor\nof the clash of nations, did he really know anything that was not\ninessential and anecdotic.  He could not remember the clauses of Magna\nCharta, but he knew eternally that it was signed at a place amusingly\ncalled Runnymede.  And the one fact engraved on his memory about the\nbattle of Waterloo was that it was fought on a Sunday.\n\nAnd as he had acquired absolutely nothing about political economy or\nabout logic, and was therefore at the mercy of the first agreeable\nsophistry that might take his fancy by storm, his unfitness to commence\nthe business of being a citizen almost reached perfection.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTHREE.\n\nFor his personal enjoyment of the earth and air and sun and stars, and\nof society and solitude, no preparation had been made, or dreamt of.\nThe sentiment of nature had never been encouraged in him, or even\nmentioned.  He knew not how to look at a landscape nor at a sky.  Of\nplants and trees he was as exquisitely ignorant as of astronomy.  It had\nnot occurred to him to wonder why the days are longer in summer, and he\nvaguely supposed that the cold of winter was due to an increased\ndistance of the earth from the sun.  Still, he had learnt that Saturn\nhad a ring, and sometimes he unconsciously looked for it in the\nfirmament, as for a tea-tray.\n\nOf art, and the arts, he had been taught nothing.  He had never seen a\ngreat picture or statue, nor heard great orchestral or solo music; and\nhe had no idea that architecture was an art and emotional, though it\nmoved him in a very peculiar fashion.  Of the art of English literature,\nor of any other literature, he had likewise been taught nothing.  But he\nknew the meaning of a few obsolete words in a few plays of Shakespeare.\nHe had not learnt how to express himself orally in any language, but\nthrough hard drilling he was so genuinely erudite in accidence and\nsyntax that he could parse and analyse with superb assurance the most\nmagnificent sentences of Milton, Virgil, and Racine.  This skill,\ntogether with an equal skill in utilising the elementary properties of\nnumbers and geometrical figures, was the most brilliant achievement of\nhis long apprenticeship.\n\nAnd now his education was finished.  It had cost his father twenty-eight\nshillings a term, or four guineas a year, and no trouble.  In younger\ndays his father had spent more money and far more personal attention on\nthe upbringing of a dog.  His father had enjoyed success with dogs\nthrough treating them as individuals.  But it had not happened to him,\nnor to anybody in authority, to treat Edwin as an individual.\nNevertheless it must not be assumed that Edwin's father was a callous\nand conscienceless brute, and Edwin a martyr of neglect.  Old Clayhanger\nwas, on the contrary, an average upright and respectable parent who had\ngiven his son a thoroughly sound education, and Edwin had had the good\nfortune to receive that thoroughly sound education, as a preliminary to\nentering the world.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nFOUR.\n\nHe was very far from realising the imperfections of his equipment for\nthe grand entry; but still he was not without uneasiness.  In particular\nthe conversation incident to the canal-boat wager was disturbing him.\nIt amazed him, as he reflected, that he should have remained, to such an\nadvanced age, in a state of ignorance concerning the origin of the clay\nfrom which the crocks of his native district were manufactured.  That\nthe Sunday should have been able to inform him did not cause him any\nshame, for he guessed from the peculiar eager tone of voice in which the\nfacts had been delivered, that the Sunday was merely retailing some\nknowledge recently acquired by chance.  He knew all the Sunday's tones\nof voice; and he also was well aware that the Sunday's brain was not on\nthe whole better stored than his own.  Further, the Sunday was satisfied\nwith his bit of accidental knowledge.  Edwin was not.  Edwin wanted to\nknow why, if the clay for making earthenware was not got in the Five\nTowns, the Five Towns had become the great seat of the manufacture.  Why\nwere not pots made in the South, where the clay came from?  He could not\nthink of any answer to this enigma, nor of any means of arriving by\nhimself at an answer.  The feeling was that he ought to have been able\nto arrive at the answer as at the answer to an equation.\n\nHe did not definitely blame his education; he did not think clearly\nabout the thing at all.  But, as a woman with a vague discomfort dimly\nfears cancer, so he dimly feared that there might be something\nfundamentally unsound in this sound education of his.  And he had\nremorse for all the shirking that he had been guilty of during all his\nyears at school.  He shook his head solemnly at the immense and nearly\nuniversal shirking that continually went on.  He could only acquit three\nor four boys, among the hundreds he had known, of the shameful sin.  And\nall that he could say in favour of himself was that there were many\nworse than Edwin Clayhanger.  Not merely the boys, but the masters, were\nsinners.  Only two masters could he unreservedly respect as having acted\nconscientiously up to their pretensions, and one of these was an\nunpleasant brute.  All the cleverness, the ingenuities, the fakes, the\ninsincerities, the incapacitaties, the vanities, and the dishonesties of\nthe rest stood revealed to him, and he judged them by the mere essential\nforce of character alone.  A schoolmaster might as well attempt to\ndeceive God as a boy who is watching him every day with the inhuman eye\nof youth.\n\n\"All this must end now!\" he said to himself, meaning all that could be\nincluded in the word \"shirk.\"\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nFIVE.\n\nHe was splendidly serious.  He was as splendidly serious as a reformer.\nBy a single urgent act of thought he would have made himself a man, and\nchanged imperfection into perfection.  He desired--and there was real\npassion in his desire--to do his best, to exhaust himself in doing his\nbest, in living according to his conscience.  He did not know of what he\nwas capable, nor what he could achieve.  Achievement was not the matter\nof his desire; but endeavour, honest and terrific endeavour.  He\nadmitted to himself his shortcomings, and he did not under-estimate the\ndifficulties that lay before him; but he said, thinking of his father:\n\"Surely he'll see I mean business!  Surely he's bound to give in when he\nsees how much in earnest I am!\"  He was convinced, almost, that\npassionate faith could move mountainous fathers.\n\n\"I'll show 'em!\" he muttered.\n\nAnd he meant that he would show the world...  He was honouring the\nworld; he was paying the finest homage to it.  In that head of his a\nflame burnt that was like an altar-fire, a miraculous and beautiful\nphenomenon, than which nothing is more miraculous nor more beautiful\nover the whole earth.  Whence had it suddenly sprung, that flame?  After\nyears of muddy inefficiency, of contentedness with the second-rate and\nthe dishonest, that flame astoundingly bursts forth, from a hidden,\nunheeded spark that none had ever thought to blow upon.  It bursts forth\nout of a damp jungle of careless habits and negligence that could not\npossibly have fed it.  There is little to encourage it.  The very\narchitecture of the streets shows that environment has done naught for\nit: ragged brickwork, walls finished anyhow with saggars and slag;\nnarrow uneven alleys leading to higgledy-piggledy workshops and kilns;\ncottages transformed into factories and factories into cottages,\nclumsily, hastily, because nothing matters so long as \"it will do;\"\neverywhere something forced to fulfil, badly, the function of something\nelse; in brief, the reign of the slovenly makeshift, shameless, filthy,\nand picturesque.  Edwin himself seemed no tabernacle for that singular\nflame.  He was not merely untidy and dirty--at his age such defects\nmight have excited in a sane observer uneasiness by their absence; but\nhis gestures and his gait were untidy.  He did not mind how he walked.\nAll his sprawling limbs were saying: \"What does it matter, so long as we\nget there?\"  The angle of the slatternly bag across his shoulders was an\ninsult to the flame.  And yet the flame burned with serene and terrible\npureness.\n\nIt was surprising that no one saw it passing along the mean, black,\nsmoke-palled streets that huddle about Saint Luke's Church.  Sundry\nexperienced and fat old women were standing or sitting at their cottage\ndoors, one or two smoking cutties.  But even they, who in child-bed and\nat gravesides had been at the very core of life for long years, they,\nwho saw more than most, could only see a fresh lad passing along, with\nfair hair and a clear complexion, and gawky knees and elbows, a fierce,\nrapt expression on his straightforward, good-natured face.  Some knew\nthat it was \"Clayhanger's lad,\" a nice-behaved young gentleman, and the\nspitten image of his poor mother.  They all knew what a lad is--the feel\nof his young skin under his \"duds,\" the capricious freedom of his\nmovements, his sudden madnesses and shoutings and tendernesses, and the\nexceeding power of his unconscious wistful charm.  They could divine all\nthat in a glance.  But they could not see the mysterious and holy flame\nof the desire for self-perfection blazing within that tousled head.  And\nif Edwin had suspected that anybody could indeed perceive it, he would\nhave whipped it out for shame, though the repudiation had meant\neverlasting death.  Such is youth in the Five Towns, if not elsewhere.\n\n\n\nVOLUME ONE, CHAPTER THREE.\n\nENTRY INTO THE WORLD.\n\nEdwin came steeply out of the cinder-strewn back streets by Woodisun\nBank [hill] into Duck Square, nearly at the junction of Trafalgar Road\nand Wedgwood Street.  A few yards down Woodisun Bank, cocks and hens\nwere scurrying, with necks horizontal, from all quarters, and were even\nflying, to the call of a little old woman who threw grain from the top\nstep of her porch.  On the level of the narrow pavement stood an immense\nconstable, clad in white trousers, with a gun under his arm for the\nkilling of mad dogs; he was talking to the woman, and their two heads\nwere exactly at the same height.  On a pair of small double gates near\nthe old woman's cottage were painted the words, \"Steam Printing Works.\nNo admittance except on business.\"  And from as far as Duck Square could\nbe heard the puff-puff which proved the use of steam in this works to\nwhich idlers and mere pleasure-seekers were forbidden access.\n\nDuck Square was one of the oldest, if the least imposing, of all the\npublic places in Bursley.  It had no traffic across it, being only a\nsloping rectangle, like a vacant lot, with Trafalgar Road and Wedgwood\nStreet for its exterior sides, and no outlet on its inner sides.  The\nbuildings on those inner sides were low and humble and, as it were,\nwithdrawn from the world, the chief of them being the ancient Duck Inn,\nwhere the hand-bell ringers used to meet.  But Duck Square looked out\nupon the very birth of Trafalgar Road, that wide, straight thoroughfare,\nwhose name dates it, which had been invented, in the lifetime of a few\nthen living, to unite Bursley with Hanbridge.  It also looked out upon\nthe birth of several old pack-horse roads which Trafalgar Road had\nsupplanted.  One of these was Woodisun Bank, that wound slowly up hill\nand down dale, apparently always choosing the longest and hardest route,\nto Hanbridge; and another was Aboukir Street, formerly known as Warm\nLane, that reached Hanbridge in a manner equally difficult and\nunhurried.  At the junction of Trafalgar Road and Aboukir Street stood\nthe Dragon Hotel, once the great posting-house of the town, from which\nall roads started.  Duck Square had watched coaches and waggons stop at\nand start from the Dragon Hotel for hundreds of years.  It had seen the\nDragon rebuilt in brick and stone, with fine bay windows on each storey,\nin early Georgian times, and it had seen even the new structure become\nold and assume the dignity of age.  Duck Square could remember strings\nof pack-mules driven by women, `trapesing' in zigzags down Woodisun Bank\nand Warm Lane, and occasionally falling, with awful smashes of the\ncrockery they carried, in the deep, slippery, scarce passable mire of\nthe first slants into the valley.  Duck Square had witnessed the slow\ndeclension of these roads into mere streets, and slum streets at that,\nand the death of all mules, and the disappearance of all coaches and all\nneighing and prancing and whipcracking romance; while Trafalgar Road,\nsimply because it was straight and broad and easily graded, flourished\nwith toll-bars and a couple of pair-horsed trams that ran on lines.  And\nmany people were proud of those cushioned trams; but perhaps they had\nnever known that coach-drivers used to tell each other about the state\nof the turn at the bottom of Warm Lane (since absurdly renamed in honour\nof an Egyptian battle), and that Woodisun Bank (now unnoticed save by\ndoubtful characters, policemen, and schoolboys) was once regularly\n`taken' by four horses at a canter.  The history of human manners is\ncrunched and embedded in the very macadam of that part of the borough,\nand the burgesses unheedingly tread it down every day and talk gloomily\nabout the ugly smoky prose of industrial manufacture.  And yet the\nDragon Hotel, safely surviving all revolutions by the mighty virtue and\nattraction of ale, stands before them to remind them of the\ninterestingness of existence.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTWO.\n\nAt the southern corner of Trafalgar Road and Wedgwood Street, with Duck\nSquare facing it, the Dragon Hotel and Warm Lane to its right, and\nWoodisun Bank creeping inconspicuously down to its left, stood a\nthree-storey building consisting of house and shop, the frontage being\nin Wedgwood Street.  Over the double-windowed shop was a discreet\nsignboard in gilt letters, \"D.  Clayhanger, Printer and Stationer,\" but\nabove the first floor was a later and much larger sign, with the single\nword, \"Steam-printing.\"  All the brickwork of the facade was painted\nyellow, and had obviously been painted yellow many times; the woodwork\nof the plate-glass windows was a very dark green approaching black.  The\nupper windows were stumpy, almost square, some dirty and some clean and\ncurtained, with prominent sills and architraves.  The line of the\nprojecting spouting at the base of the roof was slightly curved through\nsubsidence; at either end of the roof-ridge rose twin chimneys each with\nthree salmon- chimney-pots.  The gigantic word `Steam-printing'\ncould be seen from the windows of the Dragon, from the porch of the big\nWesleyan chapel higher up the <DW72>, from the Conservative Club and the\nplayground at the top of the <DW72>; and as for Duck Square itself, it\ncould see little else.  The left-hand shop window was alluringly set out\nwith the lighter apparatus of writing and reading, and showed\nincidentally several rosy pictures of ideal English maidens; that to the\nright\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}
{"id": "pg19_002", "title": "Sons and Lovers by David Herbert Lawrence", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/217", "tokens": 8192, "chars": 32578, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nPART I\n     1.   The Early Married Life of the Morels\n     2.   The Birth of Paul, and Another Battle\n     3.   The Casting Off of Morel--The Taking on of William\n     4.   The Young Life of Paul\n     5.   Paul Launches into Life\n     6.   Death in the Family\n\n     PART II\n\n     7.   Lad-and-Girl Love\n     8.   Strife in Love\n     9.   Defeat of Miriam\n     10.  Clara\n     11.  The Test on Miriam\n     12.  Passion\n     13.  Baxter Dawes\n     14.  The Release\n     15.  Derelict\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE EARLY MARRIED LIFE OF THE MORELS\n\n\"THE BOTTOMS\" succeeded to \"Hell Row\". Hell Row was a block of thatched,\nbulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Greenhill Lane. There\nlived the colliers who worked in the little gin-pits two fields away.\nThe brook ran under the alder trees, scarcely soiled by these small\nmines, whose coal was drawn to the surface by donkeys that plodded\nwearily in a circle round a gin. And all over the countryside were these\nsame pits, some of which had been worked in the time of Charles II, the\nfew colliers and the donkeys burrowing down like ants into the earth,\nmaking queer mounds and little black places among the corn-fields and\nthe meadows. And the cottages of these coal-miners, in blocks and pairs\nhere and there, together with odd farms and homes of the stockingers,\nstraying over the parish, formed the village of Bestwood.\n\nThen, some sixty years ago, a sudden change took place, gin-pits were\nelbowed aside by the large mines of the financiers. The coal and iron\nfield of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire was discovered. Carston, Waite\nand Co. appeared. Amid tremendous excitement, Lord Palmerston formally\nopened the company's first mine at Spinney Park, on the edge of Sherwood\nForest.\n\nAbout this time the notorious Hell Row, which through growing old had\nacquired an evil reputation, was burned down, and much dirt was cleansed\naway.\n\nCarston, Waite & Co. found they had struck on a good thing, so, down the\nvalleys of the brooks from Selby and Nuttall, new mines were sunk, until\nsoon there were six pits working. From Nuttall, high up on the sandstone\namong the woods, the railway ran, past the ruined priory of the\nCarthusians and past Robin Hood's Well, down to Spinney Park, then on to\nMinton, a large mine among corn-fields; from Minton across the farmlands\nof the valleyside to Bunker's Hill, branching off there, and running\nnorth to Beggarlee and Selby, that looks over at Crich and the hills of\nDerbyshire: six mines like black studs on the countryside, linked by a\nloop of fine chain, the railway.\n\nTo accommodate the regiments of miners, Carston, Waite and Co. built the\nSquares, great quadrangles of dwellings on the hillside of Bestwood,\nand then, in the brook valley, on the site of Hell Row, they erected the\nBottoms.\n\nThe Bottoms consisted of six blocks of miners' dwellings, two rows\nof three, like the dots on a blank-six domino, and twelve houses in a\nblock. This double row of dwellings sat at the foot of the rather sharp\n<DW72> from Bestwood, and looked out, from the attic windows at least, on\nthe slow climb of the valley towards Selby.\n\nThe houses themselves were substantial and very decent. One could walk\nall round, seeing little front gardens with auriculas and saxifrage in\nthe shadow of the bottom block, sweet-williams and pinks in the sunny\ntop block; seeing neat front windows, little porches, little privet\nhedges, and dormer windows for the attics. But that was outside; that\nwas the view on to the uninhabited parlours of all the colliers' wives.\nThe dwelling-room, the kitchen, was at the back of the house, facing\ninward between the blocks, looking at a scrubby back garden, and then at\nthe ash-pits. And between the rows, between the long lines of ash-pits,\nwent the alley, where the children played and the women gossiped and the\nmen smoked. So, the actual conditions of living in the Bottoms, that\nwas so well built and that looked so nice, were quite unsavoury because\npeople must live in the kitchen, and the kitchens opened on to that\nnasty alley of ash-pits.\n\nMrs. Morel was not anxious to move into the Bottoms, which was already\ntwelve years old and on the downward path, when she descended to it from\nBestwood. But it was the best she could do. Moreover, she had an end\nhouse in one of the top blocks, and thus had only one neighbour; on\nthe other side an extra strip of garden. And, having an end house, she\nenjoyed a kind of aristocracy among the other women of the \"between\"\nhouses, because her rent was five shillings and sixpence instead of\nfive shillings a week. But this superiority in station was not much\nconsolation to Mrs. Morel.\n\nShe was thirty-one years old, and had been married eight years. A rather\nsmall woman, of delicate mould but resolute bearing, she shrank a little\nfrom the first contact with the Bottoms women. She came down in the\nJuly, and in the September expected her third baby.\n\nHer husband was a miner. They had only been in their new home three\nweeks when the wakes, or fair, began. Morel, she knew, was sure to make\na holiday of it. He went off early on the Monday morning, the day of\nthe fair. The two children were highly excited. William, a boy of seven,\nfled off immediately after breakfast, to prowl round the wakes ground,\nleaving Annie, who was only five, to whine all morning to go also. Mrs.\nMorel did her work. She scarcely knew her neighbours yet, and knew no\none with whom to trust the little girl. So she promised to take her to\nthe wakes after dinner.\n\nWilliam appeared at half-past twelve. He was a very active lad,\nfair-haired, freckled, with a touch of the Dane or Norwegian about him.\n\n\"Can I have my dinner, mother?\" he cried, rushing in with his cap on.\n\"'Cause it begins at half-past one, the man says so.\"\n\n\"You can have your dinner as soon as it's done,\" replied the mother.\n\n\"Isn't it done?\" he cried, his blue eyes staring at her in indignation.\n\"Then I'm goin' be-out it.\"\n\n\"You'll do nothing of the sort. It will be done in five minutes. It is\nonly half-past twelve.\"\n\n\"They'll be beginnin',\" the boy half cried, half shouted.\n\n\"You won't die if they do,\" said the mother. \"Besides, it's only\nhalf-past twelve, so you've a full hour.\"\n\nThe lad began hastily to lay the table, and directly the three sat down.\nThey were eating batter-pudding and jam, when the boy jumped off his\nchair and stood perfectly stiff. Some distance away could be heard the\nfirst small braying of a merry-go-round, and the tooting of a horn. His\nface quivered as he looked at his mother.\n\n\"I told you!\" he said, running to the dresser for his cap.\n\n\"Take your pudding in your hand--and it's only five past one, so you\nwere wrong--you haven't got your twopence,\" cried the mother in a\nbreath.\n\nThe boy came back, bitterly disappointed, for his twopence, then went\noff without a word.\n\n\"I want to go, I want to go,\" said Annie, beginning to cry.\n\n\"Well, and you shall go, whining, wizzening little stick!\" said the\nmother. And later in the afternoon she trudged up the hill under the\ntall hedge with her child. The hay was gathered from the fields, and\ncattle were turned on to the eddish. It was warm, peaceful.\n\nMrs. Morel did not like the wakes. There were two sets of horses, one\ngoing by steam, one pulled round by a pony; three organs were grinding,\nand there came odd cracks of pistol-shots, fearful screeching of the\ncocoanut man's rattle, shouts of the Aunt Sally man, screeches from the\npeep-show lady. The mother perceived her son gazing enraptured outside\nthe Lion Wallace booth, at the pictures of this famous lion that had\nkilled a <DW64> and maimed for life two white men. She left him alone,\nand went to get Annie a spin of toffee. Presently the lad stood in front\nof her, wildly excited.\n\n\"You never said you was coming--isn't the' a lot of things?--that lion's\nkilled three men--I've spent my tuppence--an' look here.\"\n\nHe pulled from his pocket two egg-cups, with pink moss-roses on them.\n\n\"I got these from that stall where y'ave ter get them marbles in\nthem holes. An' I got these two in two goes-'aepenny a go-they've got\nmoss-roses on, look here. I wanted these.\"\n\nShe knew he wanted them for her.\n\n\"H'm!\" she said, pleased. \"They ARE pretty!\"\n\n\"Shall you carry 'em, 'cause I'm frightened o' breakin' 'em?\"\n\nHe was tipful of excitement now she had come, led her about the ground,\nshowed her everything. Then, at the peep-show, she explained the\npictures, in a sort of story, to which he listened as if spellbound. He\nwould not leave her. All the time he stuck close to her, bristling with\na small boy's pride of her. For no other woman looked such a lady as she\ndid, in her little black bonnet and her cloak. She smiled when she saw\nwomen she knew. When she was tired she said to her son:\n\n\"Well, are you coming now, or later?\"\n\n\"Are you goin' a'ready?\" he cried, his face full of reproach.\n\n\"Already? It is past four, I know.\"\n\n\"What are you goin' a'ready for?\" he lamented.\n\n\"You needn't come if you don't want,\" she said.\n\nAnd she went slowly away with her little girl, whilst her son stood\nwatching her, cut to the heart to let her go, and yet unable to leave\nthe wakes. As she crossed the open ground in front of the Moon and Stars\nshe heard men shouting, and smelled the beer, and hurried a little,\nthinking her husband was probably in the bar.\n\nAt about half-past six her son came home, tired now, rather pale, and\nsomewhat wretched. He was miserable, though he did not know it, because\nhe had let her go alone. Since she had gone, he had not enjoyed his\nwakes.\n\n\"Has my dad been?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" said the mother.\n\n\"He's helping to wait at the Moon and Stars. I seed him through that\nblack tin stuff wi' holes in, on the window, wi' his sleeves rolled up.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" exclaimed the mother shortly. \"He's got no money. An' he'll be\nsatisfied if he gets his 'lowance, whether they give him more or not.\"\n\nWhen the light was fading, and Mrs. Morel could see no more to sew, she\nrose and went to the door. Everywhere was the sound of excitement, the\nrestlessness of the holiday, that at last infected her. She went\nout into the side garden. Women were coming home from the wakes, the\nchildren hugging a white lamb with green legs, or a wooden horse.\nOccasionally a man lurched past, almost as full as he could carry.\nSometimes a good husband came along with his family, peacefully. But\nusually the women and children were alone. The stay-at-home mothers\nstood gossiping at the corners of the alley, as the twilight sank,\nfolding their arms under their white aprons.\n\nMrs. Morel was alone, but she was used to it. Her son and her little\ngirl slept upstairs; so, it seemed, her home was there behind her,\nfixed and stable. But she felt wretched with the coming child. The world\nseemed a dreary place, where nothing else would happen for her--at\nleast until William grew up. But for herself, nothing but this dreary\nendurance--till the children grew up. And the children! She could not\nafford to have this third. She did not want it. The father was serving\nbeer in a public house, swilling himself drunk. She despised him, and\nwas tied to him. This coming child was too much for her. If it were not\nfor William and Annie, she was sick of it, the struggle with poverty and\nugliness and meanness.\n\nShe went into the front garden, feeling too heavy to take herself out,\nyet unable to stay indoors. The heat suffocated her. And looking ahead,\nthe prospect of her life made her feel as if she were buried alive.\n\nThe front garden was a small square with a privet hedge. There she\nstood, trying to soothe herself with the scent of flowers and the\nfading, beautiful evening. Opposite her small gate was the stile that\nled uphill, under the tall hedge between the burning glow of the cut\npastures. The sky overhead throbbed and pulsed with light. The glow sank\nquickly off the field; the earth and the hedges smoked dusk. As it grew\ndark, a ruddy glare came out on the hilltop, and out of the glare the\ndiminished commotion of the fair.\n\nSometimes, down the trough of darkness formed by the path under the\nhedges, men came lurching home. One young man lapsed into a run down\nthe steep bit that ended the hill, and went with a crash into the stile.\nMrs. Morel shuddered. He picked himself up, swearing viciously, rather\npathetically, as if he thought the stile had wanted to hurt him.\n\nShe went indoors, wondering if things were never going to alter. She was\nbeginning by now to realise that they would not. She seemed so far\naway from her girlhood, she wondered if it were the same person walking\nheavily up the back garden at the Bottoms as had run so lightly up the\nbreakwater at Sheerness ten years before.\n\n\"What have I to do with it?\" she said to herself. \"What have I to do\nwith all this? Even the child I am going to have! It doesn't seem as if\nI were taken into account.\"\n\nSometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes\none's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were\nslurred over.\n\n\"I wait,\" Mrs. Morel said to herself--\"I wait, and what I wait for can\nnever come.\"\n\nThen she straightened the kitchen, lit the lamp, mended the fire, looked\nout the washing for the next day, and put it to soak. After which\nshe sat down to her sewing. Through the long hours her needle flashed\nregularly through the stuff. Occasionally she sighed, moving to relieve\nherself. And all the time she was thinking how to make the most of what\nshe had, for the children's sakes.\n\nAt half-past eleven her husband came. His cheeks were very red and\nvery shiny above his black moustache. His head nodded slightly. He was\npleased with himself.\n\n\"Oh! Oh! waitin' for me, lass? I've bin 'elpin' Anthony, an' what's\nthink he's gen me? Nowt b'r a lousy hae'f-crown, an' that's ivry\npenny--\"\n\n\"He thinks you've made the rest up in beer,\" she said shortly.\n\n\"An' I 'aven't--that I 'aven't. You b'lieve me, I've 'ad very little\nthis day, I have an' all.\" His voice went tender. \"Here, an' I browt\nthee a bit o' brandysnap, an' a cocoanut for th' children.\" He laid the\ngingerbread and the cocoanut, a hairy object, on the table. \"Nay, tha\nniver said thankyer for nowt i' thy life, did ter?\"\n\nAs a compromise, she picked up the cocoanut and shook it, to see if it\nhad any milk.\n\n\"It's a good 'un, you may back yer life o' that. I got it fra' Bill\nHodgkisson. 'Bill,' I says, 'tha non wants them three nuts, does ter?\nArena ter for gi'ein' me one for my bit of a lad an' wench?' 'I ham,\nWalter, my lad,' 'e says; 'ta'e which on 'em ter's a mind.' An' so I\ntook one, an' thanked 'im. I didn't like ter shake it afore 'is eyes,\nbut 'e says, 'Tha'd better ma'e sure it's a good un, Walt.' An' so, yer\nsee, I knowed it was. He's a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, e's a nice\nchap!\"\n\n\"A man will part with anything so long as he's drunk, and you're drunk\nalong with him,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy, who's drunk, I sh'd like ter know?\" said\nMorel. He was extraordinarily pleased with himself, because of his day's\nhelping to wait in the Moon and Stars. He chattered on.\n\nMrs. Morel, very tired, and sick of his babble, went to bed as quickly\nas possible, while he raked the fire.\n\nMrs. Morel came of a good old burgher family, famous independents\nwho had fought with Colonel Hutchinson, and who remained stout\nCongregationalists. Her grandfather had gone bankrupt in the lace-market\nat a time when so many lace-manufacturers were ruined in Nottingham. Her\nfather, George Coppard, was an engineer--a large, handsome, haughty\nman, proud of his fair skin and blue eyes, but more proud still of his\nintegrity. Gertrude resembled her mother in her small build. But her\ntemper, proud and unyielding, she had from the Coppards.\n\nGeorge Coppard was bitterly galled by his own poverty. He became foreman\nof the engineers in the dockyard at Sheerness. Mrs. Morel--Gertrude--was\nthe second daughter. She favoured her mother, loved her mother best of\nall; but she had the Coppards' clear, defiant blue eyes and their broad\nbrow. She remembered to have hated her father's overbearing manner\ntowards her gentle, humorous, kindly-souled mother. She remembered\nrunning over the breakwater at Sheerness and finding the boat. She\nremembered to have been petted and flattered by all the men when she had\ngone to the dockyard, for she was a delicate, rather proud child. She\nremembered the funny old mistress, whose assistant she had become, whom\nshe had loved to help in the private school. And she still had the Bible\nthat John Field had given her. She used to walk home from chapel\nwith John Field when she was nineteen. He was the son of a well-to-do\ntradesman, had been to college in London, and was to devote himself to\nbusiness.\n\nShe could always recall in detail a September Sunday afternoon, when\nthey had sat under the vine at the back of her father's house. The sun\ncame through the chinks of the vine-leaves and made beautiful patterns,\nlike a lace scarf, falling on her and on him. Some of the leaves were\nclean yellow, like yellow flat flowers.\n\n\"Now sit still,\" he had cried. \"Now your hair, I don't know what it IS\nlike! It's as bright as copper and gold, as red as burnt copper, and\nit has gold threads where the sun shines on it. Fancy their saying it's\nbrown. Your mother calls it mouse-colour.\"\n\nShe had met his brilliant eyes, but her clear face scarcely showed the\nelation which rose within her.\n\n\"But you say you don't like business,\" she pursued.\n\n\"I don't. I hate it!\" he cried hotly.\n\n\"And you would like to go into the ministry,\" she half implored.\n\n\"I should. I should love it, if I thought I could make a first-rate\npreacher.\"\n\n\"Then why don't you--why DON'T you?\" Her voice rang with defiance. \"If I\nwere a man, nothing would stop me.\"\n\nShe held her head erect. He was rather timid before her.\n\n\"But my father's so stiff-necked. He means to put me into the business,\nand I know he'll do it.\"\n\n\"But if you're a MAN?\" she had cried.\n\n\"Being a man isn't everything,\" he replied, frowning with puzzled\nhelplessness.\n\nNow, as she moved about her work at the Bottoms, with some experience of\nwhat being a man meant, she knew that it was NOT everything.\n\nAt twenty, owing to her health, she had left Sheerness. Her father had\nretired home to Nottingham. John Field's father had been ruined; the\nson had gone as a teacher in Norwood. She did not hear of him until, two\nyears later, she made determined inquiry. He had married his landlady, a\nwoman of forty, a widow with property.\n\nAnd still Mrs. Morel preserved John Field's Bible. She did not now\nbelieve him to be--Well, she understood pretty well what he might or\nmight not have been. So she preserved his Bible, and kept his memory\nintact in her heart, for her own sake. To her dying day, for thirty-five\nyears, she did not speak of him.\n\nWhen she was twenty-three years old, she met, at a Christmas party, a\nyoung man from the Erewash Valley. Morel was then twenty-seven years\nold. He was well set-up, erect, and very smart. He had wavy black hair\nthat shone again, and a vigorous black beard that had never been shaved.\nHis cheeks were ruddy, and his red, moist mouth was noticeable because\nhe laughed so often and so heartily. He had that rare thing, a rich,\nringing laugh. Gertrude Coppard had watched him, fascinated. He was\nso full of colour and animation, his voice ran so easily into comic\ngrotesque, he was so ready and so pleasant with everybody. Her own\nfather had a rich fund of humour, but it was satiric. This man's was\ndifferent: soft, non-intellectual, warm, a kind of gambolling.\n\nShe herself was opposite. She had a curious, receptive mind which found\nmuch pleasure and amusement in listening to other folk. She was clever\nin leading folk to talk. She loved ideas, and was considered very\nintellectual. What she liked most of all was an argument on religion or\nphilosophy or politics with some educated man. This she did not often\nenjoy. So she always had people tell her about themselves, finding her\npleasure so.\n\nIn her person she was rather small and delicate, with a large brow, and\ndropping bunches of brown silk curls. Her blue eyes were very straight,\nhonest, and searching. She had the beautiful hands of the Coppards.\nHer dress was always subdued. She wore dark blue silk, with a peculiar\nsilver chain of silver scallops. This, and a heavy brooch of twisted\ngold, was her only ornament. She was still perfectly intact, deeply\nreligious, and full of beautiful candour.\n\nWalter Morel seemed melted away before her. She was to the miner that\nthing of mystery and fascination, a lady. When she spoke to him, it was\nwith a southern pronunciation and a purity of English which thrilled\nhim to hear. She watched him. He danced well, as if it were natural and\njoyous in him to dance. His grandfather was a French refugee who had\nmarried an English barmaid--if it had been a marriage. Gertrude Coppard\nwatched the young miner as he danced, a certain subtle exultation like\nglamour in his movement, and his face the flower of his body, ruddy,\nwith tumbled black hair, and laughing alike whatever partner he bowed\nabove. She thought him rather wonderful, never having met anyone like\nhim. Her father was to her the type of all men. And George Coppard,\nproud in his bearing, handsome, and rather bitter; who preferred\ntheology in reading, and who drew near in sympathy only to one man, the\nApostle Paul; who was harsh in government, and in familiarity ironic;\nwho ignored all sensuous pleasure:--he was very different from the\nminer. Gertrude herself was rather contemptuous of dancing; she had not\nthe slightest inclination towards that accomplishment, and had never\nlearned even a Roger de Coverley. She was puritan, like her father,\nhigh-minded, and really stern. Therefore the dusky, golden softness of\nthis man's sensuous flame of life, that flowed off his flesh like the\nflame from a candle, not baffled and gripped into incandescence by\nthought and spirit as her life was, seemed to her something wonderful,\nbeyond her.\n\nHe came and bowed above her. A warmth radiated through her as if she had\ndrunk wine.\n\n\"Now do come and have this one wi' me,\" he said caressively. \"It's easy,\nyou know. I'm pining to see you dance.\"\n\nShe had told him before she could not dance. She glanced at his humility\nand smiled. Her smile was very beautiful. It moved the man so that he\nforgot everything.\n\n\"No, I won't dance,\" she said softly. Her words came clean and ringing.\n\nNot knowing what he was doing--he often did the right thing by\ninstinct--he sat beside her, inclining reverentially.\n\n\"But you mustn't miss your dance,\" she reproved.\n\n\n\"Nay, I don't want to dance that--it's not one as I care about.\"\n\n\"Yet you invited me to it.\"\n\nHe laughed very heartily at this.\n\n\"I never thought o' that. Tha'rt not long in taking the curl out of me.\"\n\nIt was her turn to laugh quickly.\n\n\"You don't look as if you'd come much uncurled,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm like a pig's tail, I curl because I canna help it,\" he laughed,\nrather boisterously.\n\n\"And you are a miner!\" she exclaimed in surprise.\n\n\"Yes. I went down when I was ten.\"\n\nShe looked at him in wondering dismay.\n\n\"When you were ten! And wasn't it very hard?\" she asked.\n\n\"You soon get used to it. You live like th' mice, an' you pop out at\nnight to see what's going on.\"\n\n\"It makes me feel blind,\" she frowned.\n\n\"Like a moudiwarp!\" he laughed. \"Yi, an' there's some chaps as does\ngo round like moudiwarps.\" He thrust his face forward in the blind,\nsnout-like way of a mole, seeming to sniff and peer for direction. \"They\ndun though!\" he protested naively. \"Tha niver seed such a way they get\nin. But tha mun let me ta'e thee down some time, an' tha can see for\nthysen.\"\n\nShe looked at him, startled. This was a new tract of life suddenly\nopened before her. She realised the life of the miners, hundreds of them\ntoiling below earth and coming up at evening. He seemed to her noble. He\nrisked his life daily, and with gaiety. She looked at him, with a touch\nof appeal in her pure humility.\n\n\"Shouldn't ter like it?\" he asked tenderly. \"'Appen not, it 'ud dirty\nthee.\"\n\nShe had never been \"thee'd\" and \"thou'd\" before.\n\nThe next Christmas they were married, and for three months she was\nperfectly happy: for six months she was very happy.\n\nHe had signed the pledge, and wore the blue ribbon of a tee-totaller: he\nwas nothing if not showy. They lived, she thought, in his own house.\nIt was small, but convenient enough, and quite nicely furnished,\nwith solid, worthy stuff that suited her honest soul. The women, her\nneighbours, were rather foreign to her, and Morel's mother and sisters\nwere apt to sneer at her ladylike ways. But she could perfectly well\nlive by herself, so long as she had her husband close.\n\nSometimes, when she herself wearied of love-talk, she tried to open her\nheart seriously to him. She saw him listen deferentially, but without\nunderstanding. This killed her efforts at a finer intimacy, and she had\nflashes of fear. Sometimes he was restless of an evening: it was not\nenough for him just to be near her, she realised. She was glad when he\nset himself to little jobs.\n\nHe was a remarkably handy man--could make or mend anything. So she would\nsay:\n\n\"I do like that coal-rake of your mother's--it is small and natty.\"\n\n\"Does ter, my wench? Well, I made that, so I can make thee one!\"\n\n\"What! why, it's a steel one!\"\n\n\"An' what if it is! Tha s'lt ha'e one very similar, if not exactly\nsame.\"\n\nShe did not mind the mess, nor the hammering and noise. He was busy and\nhappy.\n\nBut in the seventh month, when she was brushing his Sunday coat, she\nfelt papers in the breast pocket, and, seized with a sudden curiosity,\ntook them out to read. He very rarely wore the frock-coat he was married\nin: and it had not occurred to her before to feel curious concerning the\npapers. They were the bills of the household furniture, still unpaid.\n\n\"Look here,\" she said at night, after he was washed and had had his\ndinner. \"I found these in the pocket of your wedding-coat. Haven't you\nsettled the bills yet?\"\n\n\"No. I haven't had a chance.\"\n\n\"But you told me all was paid. I had better go into Nottingham on\nSaturday and settle them. I don't like sitting on another man's chairs\nand eating from an unpaid table.\"\n\nHe did not answer.\n\n\"I can have your bank-book, can't I?\"\n\n\"Tha can ha'e it, for what good it'll be to thee.\"\n\n\"I thought--\" she began. He had told her he had a good bit of money left\nover. But she realised it was no use asking questions. She sat rigid\nwith bitterness and indignation.\n\nThe next day she went down to see his mother.\n\n\"Didn't you buy the furniture for Walter?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, I did,\" tartly retorted the elder woman.\n\n\"And how much did he give you to pay for it?\"\n\nThe elder woman was stung with fine indignation.\n\n\"Eighty pound, if you're so keen on knowin',\" she replied.\n\n\"Eighty pounds! But there are forty-two pounds still owing!\"\n\n\"I can't help that.\"\n\n\"But where has it all gone?\"\n\n\"You'll find all the papers, I think, if you look--beside ten pound as\nhe owed me, an' six pound as the wedding cost down here.\"\n\n\"Six pounds!\" echoed Gertrude Morel. It seemed to her monstrous that,\nafter her own father had paid so heavily for her wedding, six pounds\nmore should have been squandered in eating and drinking at Walter's\nparents' house, at his expense.\n\n\"And how much has he sunk in his houses?\" she asked.\n\n\"His houses--which houses?\"\n\nGertrude Morel went white to the lips. He had told her the house he\nlived in, and the next one, was his own.\n\n\"I thought the house we live in--\" she began.\n\n\"They're my houses, those two,\" said the mother-in-law. \"And not clear\neither. It's as much as I can do to keep the mortgage interest paid.\"\n\nGertrude sat white and silent. She was her father now.\n\n\"Then we ought to be paying you rent,\" she said coldly.\n\n\"Walter is paying me rent,\" replied the mother.\n\n\"And what rent?\" asked Gertrude.\n\n\"Six and six a week,\" retorted the mother.\n\nIt was more than the house was worth. Gertrude held her head erect,\nlooked straight before her.\n\n\"It is lucky to be you,\" said the elder woman, bitingly, \"to have a\nhusband as takes all the worry of the money, and leaves you a free\nhand.\"\n\nThe young wife was silent.\n\nShe said very little to her husband, but her manner had changed towards\nhim. Something in her proud, honourable soul had crystallised out hard\nas rock.\n\nWhen October came in, she thought only of Christmas. Two years ago, at\nChristmas, she had met him. Last Christmas she had married him. This\nChristmas she would bear him a child.\n\n\"You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?\" asked her nearest neighbour,\nin October, when there was great talk of opening a dancing-class over\nthe Brick and Tile Inn at Bestwood.\n\n\"No--I never had the least inclination to,\" Mrs. Morel replied.\n\n\"Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha' married your Mester. You know\nhe's quite a famous one for dancing.\"\n\n\"I didn't know he was famous,\" laughed Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Yea, he is though! Why, he ran that dancing-class in the Miners' Arms\nclub-room for over five year.\"\n\n\"Did he?\"\n\n\"Yes, he did.\" The other woman was defiant. \"An' it was thronged\nevery Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day--an' there WAS carryin's-on,\naccordin' to all accounts.\"\n\nThis kind of thing was gall and bitterness to Mrs. Morel, and she had\na fair share of it. The women did not spare her, at first; for she was\nsuperior, though she could not help it.\n\nHe began to be rather late in coming home.\n\n\"They're working very late now, aren't they?\" she said to her\nwasher-woman.\n\n\"No later than they allers do, I don't think. But they stop to have\ntheir pint at Ellen's, an' they get talkin', an' there you are! Dinner\nstone cold--an' it serves 'em right.\"\n\n\"But Mr. Morel does not take any drink.\"\n\nThe woman dropped the clothes, looked at Mrs. Morel, then went on with\nher work, saying nothing.\n\nGertrude Morel was very ill when the boy was born. Morel was good to\nher, as good as gold. But she felt very lonely, miles away from her own\npeople. She felt lonely with him now, and his presence only made it more\nintense.\n\nThe boy was small and frail at first, but he came on quickly. He was\na beautiful child, with dark gold ringlets, and dark-blue eyes which\nchanged gradually to a clear grey. His mother loved him passionately.\nHe came just when her own bitterness of disillusion was hardest to bear;\nwhen her faith in life was shaken, and her soul felt dreary and lonely.\nShe made much of the child, and the father was jealous.\n\nAt last Mrs. Morel despised her husband. She turned to the child; she\nturned from the father. He had begun to neglect her; the novelty of his\nown home was gone. He had no grit, she said bitterly to herself. What\nhe felt just at the minute, that was all to him. He could not abide by\nanything. There was nothing at the back of all his show.\n\nThere began a battle between the husband and wife--a fearful, bloody\nbattle that ended only with the death of one. She fought to make him\nundertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfill his obligations.\nBut he was too different from her. His nature was purely sensuous, and\nshe strove to make him moral, religious. She tried to force him to face\nthings. He could not endure it--it drove him out of his mind.\n\nWhile the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had become so\nirritable that it was not to be trusted. The child had only to give a\nlittle trouble when the man began to bully. A little more, and the hard\nhands of the collier hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morel loathed her husband,\nloathed him for days; and he went out and drank; and she cared very\nlittle what he did. Only, on his return, she scathed him with her\nsatire.\n\nThe estrangement between them caused him, knowingly or unknowingly,\ngrossly to offend her where he would not have done.\n\nWilliam was only one year old, and his mother was proud of him, he was\nso pretty. She was not well off now, but her sisters kept the boy in\nclothes. Then, with his little white hat curled with an ostrich feather,\nand his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twining wisps of hair\nclustering round his head. Mrs. Morel lay listening, one Sunday morning,\nto the chatter of the father and child downstairs. Then she dozed off.\nWhen she came downstairs, a great fire glowed in the grate, the room was\nhot, the breakfast was roughly laid, and seated in his armchair, against\nthe chimney-piece, sat Morel, rather timid; and standing between\nhis legs, the child--cropped like a sheep, with such an odd round\npoll--looking wondering at\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}
{"id": "pg19_003", "title": "Marriage by H. G. Wells", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35338", "tokens": 8193, "chars": 35247, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nCHAPTER THE FIRST\n\nA DAY WITH THE POPES\n\n\nSec. 1\n\nAn extremely pretty girl occupied a second-class compartment in one of\nthose trains which percolate through the rural tranquillities of middle\nEngland from Ganford in Oxfordshire to Rumbold Junction in Kent. She was\ngoing to join her family at Buryhamstreet after a visit to some\nGloucestershire friends. Her father, Mr. Pope, once a leader in the\ncoach-building world and now by retirement a gentleman, had taken the\nBuryhamstreet vicarage furnished for two months (beginning on the\nfifteenth of July) at his maximum summer rental of seven guineas a week.\nHis daughter was on her way to this retreat.\n\nAt first she had been an animated traveller, erect and keenly regardful\nof every detail upon the platforms of the stations at which her\nconveyance lingered, but the tedium of the journey and the warmth of the\nsunny afternoon had relaxed her pose by imperceptible degrees, and she\nsat now comfortably in the corner, with her neat toes upon the seat\nbefore her, ready to drop them primly at the first sign of a\nfellow-traveller. Her expression lapsed more and more towards an almost\nsomnolent reverie. She wished she had not taken a second-class ticket,\nbecause then she might have afforded a cup of tea at Reading, and so\nfortified herself against this insinuating indolence.\n\nShe was travelling second class, instead of third as she ought to have\ndone, through one of those lapses so inevitable to young people in her\nposition. The two Carmel boys and a cousin, two greyhounds and a chow\nhad come to see her off; they had made a brilliant and prosperous group\non the platform and extorted the manifest admiration of two youthful\nporters, and it had been altogether too much for Marjorie Pope to admit\nit was the family custom--except when her father's nerves had to be\nconsidered--to go third class. So she had made a hasty calculation--she\nknew her balance to a penny because of the recent tipping--and found it\nwould just run to it. Fourpence remained,--and there would be a porter\nat Buryhamstreet!\n\nHer mother had said: \"You will have Ample.\" Well, opinions of amplitude\nvary. With numerous details fresh in her mind, Marjorie decided it would\nbe wiser to avoid financial discussion during her first few days at\nBuryhamstreet.\n\nThere was much in Marjorie's equipment in the key of travelling second\nclass at the sacrifice of afternoon tea. There was, for example, a\ncertain quiet goodness of style about her clothes, though the skirt\nbetrayed age, and an entire absence of style about her luggage, which\nwas all in the compartment with her, and which consisted of a distended\nhold-all, a very good tennis racquet in a stretcher, a portmanteau of\ncheap white basketwork held together by straps, and a very new,\nexpensive-looking and meretricious dressing-bag of imitation morocco,\nwhich had been one of her chief financial errors at Oxbridge. The\ncollection was eloquent indeed of incompatible standards....\n\nMarjorie had a chin that was small in size if resolute in form, and a\nmouth that was not noticeably soft and weak because it was conspicuously\nsoft and pretty. Her nose was delicately aquiline and very subtly and\nfinely modelled, and she looked out upon the world with steady,\ngrey-blue eyes beneath broad, level brows that contradicted in a large\nmeasure the hint of weakness below. She had an abundance of copper-red\nhair, which flowed back very prettily from her broad, low forehead and\nover her delicate ears, and she had that warm-tinted clear skin that\ngoes so well with reddish hair. She had a very dainty neck, and the long\nslender lines of her body were full of the promise of a riper beauty.\nShe had the good open shoulders of a tennis-player and a swimmer. Some\nday she was to be a tall, ruddy, beautiful woman. She wore simple\nclothes of silvery grey and soft green, and about her waist was a belt\nof grey leather in which there now wilted two creamy-petalled roses.\n\nThat was the visible Marjorie. Somewhere out of time and space was an\ninvisible Marjorie who looked out on the world with those steady eyes,\nand smiled or drooped with the soft red lips, and dreamt, and wondered,\nand desired.\n\n\nSec. 2\n\nWhat a queer thing the invisible human being would appear if, by some\ndiscovery as yet inconceivable, some spiritual X-ray photography, we\ncould flash it into sight! Long ago I read a book called \"Soul Shapes\"\nthat was full of ingenious ideas, but I doubt very much if the thing so\nrevealed would have any shape, any abiding solid outline at all. It is\nsomething more fluctuating and discursive than that--at any rate, for\nevery one young enough not to have set and hardened. Things come into\nit and become it, things drift out of it and cease to be it, things turn\nupside down in it and change and colour and dissolve, and grow and eddy\nabout and blend into each other. One might figure it, I suppose, as a\npreposterous jumble animated by a will; a floundering disconnectedness\nthrough which an old hump of impulse rises and thrusts unaccountably; a\nriver beast of purpose wallowing in a back eddy of mud and weeds and\nfloating objects and creatures drowned. Now the sunshine of gladness\nmakes it all vivid, now it is sombre and grimly insistent under the sky\nof some darkling mood, now an emotional gale sweeps across it and it is\none confused agitation....\n\nAnd surely these invisible selves of men were never so jumbled, so\ncrowded, complicated, and stirred about as they are at the present time.\nOnce I am told they had a sort of order, were sphered in religious\nbeliefs, crystal clear, were arranged in a cosmogony that fitted them as\nhand fits glove, were separated by definite standards of right and wrong\nwhich presented life as planned in all its essential aspects from the\ncradle to the grave. Things are so no longer. That sphere is broken for\nmost of us; even if it is tied about and mended again, it is burst like\na seed case; things have fallen out and things have fallen in....\n\nCan I convey in any measure how it was with Marjorie?\n\nWhat was her religion?\n\nIn college forms and returns, and suchlike documents, she would describe\nherself as \"Church of England.\" She had been baptized according to the\nusages of that body, but she had hitherto evaded confirmation into it,\nand although it is a large, wealthy, and powerful organization with\nmany minds to serve it, it had never succeeded in getting into her quick\nand apprehensive intelligence any lucid and persuasive conception of\nwhat it considered God and the universe were up to with her. It had\nfailed to catch her attention and state itself to her. A number of\nhumorous and other writers and the general trend of talk around her, and\nperhaps her own shrewd little observation of superficial things, had, on\nthe other hand, created a fairly definite belief in her that it wasn't\nas a matter of fact up to very much at all, that what it said wasn't\nsaid with that absolute honesty which is a logical necessity in every\nreligious authority, and that its hierarchy had all sorts of political\nand social considerations confusing its treatment of her immortal\nsoul....\n\nMarjorie followed her father in abstaining from church. He too professed\nhimself \"Church of England,\" but he was, if we are to set aside merely\nsuperficial classifications, an irascible atheist with a respect for\nusage and Good Taste, and an abject fear of the disapproval of other\ngentlemen of his class. For the rest he secretly disliked clergymen on\naccount of the peculiarity of their collars, and a certain influence\nthey had with women. When Marjorie at the age of fourteen had displayed\na hankering after ecclesiastical ceremony and emotional religion, he had\ndeclared: \"We don't want any of _that_ nonsense,\" and sent her into the\ncountry to a farm where there were young calves and a bottle-fed lamb\nand kittens. At times her mother went to church and displayed\nconsiderable orthodoxy and punctilio, at times the good lady didn't, and\nat times she thought in a broad-minded way that there was a Lot in\nChristian Science, and subjected herself to the ministrations of an\nAmerican named Silas Root. But his ministrations were too expensive for\ncontinuous use, and so the old faith did not lose its hold upon the\nfamily altogether.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt school Marjorie had been taught what I may best describe as Muffled\nChristianity--a temperate and discreet system designed primarily not to\nirritate parents, in which the painful symbol of the crucifixion and the\nriddle of what Salvation was to save her from, and, indeed, the coarser\naspects of religion generally, were entirely subordinate to images of\namiable perambulations, and a rich mist of finer feelings. She had been\nshielded, not only from arguments against her religion, but from\narguments for it--the two things go together--and I do not think it was\nparticularly her fault if she was now growing up like the great majority\nof respectable English people, with her religious faculty as it were,\nartificially faded, and an acquired disposition to regard any\nspeculation of why she was, and whence and whither, as rather foolish,\nnot very important, and in the very worst possible taste.\n\nAnd so, the crystal globe being broken which once held souls together,\nyou may expect to find her a little dispersed and inconsistent in her\nmotives, and with none of that assurance a simpler age possessed of the\nexact specification of goodness or badness, the exact delimitation of\nright and wrong. Indeed, she did not live in a world of right and wrong,\nor anything so stern; \"horrid\" and \"jolly\" had replaced these archaic\norientations. In a world where a mercantile gentility has conquered\npassion and God is neither blasphemed nor adored, there necessarily\narises this generation of young people, a little perplexed, indeed, and\nwith a sense of something missing, but feeling their way inevitably at\nlast to the great releasing question, \"Then why shouldn't we have a\ngood time?\"\n\nYet there was something in Marjorie, as in most human beings, that\ndemanded some general idea, some aim, to hold her life together. A girl\nupon the borders of her set at college was fond of the phrase \"living\nfor the moment,\" and Marjorie associated with it the speaker's lax\nmouth, sloe-like eyes, soft, quick-flushing, boneless face, and a habit\nof squawking and bouncing in a forced and graceless manner. Marjorie's\nnatural disposition was to deal with life in a steadier spirit than\nthat. Yet all sorts of powers and forces were at work in her, some\nexalted, some elvish, some vulgar, some subtle. She felt keenly and\ndesired strongly, and in effect she came perhaps nearer the realization\nof that offending phrase than its original exponent. She had a clean\nintensity of feeling that made her delight in a thousand various things,\nin sunlight and textures, and the vividly quick acts of animals, in\nlandscape, and the beauty of other girls, in wit, and people's voices,\nand good strong reasoning, and the desire and skill of art. She had a\nclear, rapid memory that made her excel perhaps a little too easily at\nschool and college, an eagerness of sympathetic interest that won people\nvery quickly and led to disappointments, and a very strong sense of the\nprimary importance of Miss Marjorie Pope in the world. And when any very\ndefinite dream of what she would like to be and what she would like to\ndo, such as being the principal of a ladies' college, or the first woman\nmember of Parliament, or the wife of a barbaric chief in Borneo, or a\ngreat explorer, or the wife of a millionaire and a great social leader,\nor George Sand, or Saint Teresa, had had possession of her imagination\nfor a few weeks, an entirely contrasted and equally attractive dream\nwould presently arise beside it and compete with it and replace it. It\nwasn't so much that she turned against the old one as that she was\nattracted by the new, and she forgot the old dream rather than abandoned\nit, simply because she was only one person, and hadn't therefore the\npossibility of realizing both.\n\nIn certain types Marjorie's impressionability aroused a passion of\nproselytism. People of the most diverse kinds sought to influence her,\nand they invariably did so. Quite a number of people, including her\nmother and the principal of her college, believed themselves to be the\nleading influence in her life. And this was particularly the case with\nher aunt Plessington. Her aunt Plessington was devoted to social and\npolitical work of an austere and aggressive sort (in which Mr.\nPlessington participated); she was childless, and had a Movement of her\nown, the Good Habits Movement, a progressive movement of the utmost\nscope and benevolence which aimed at extensive interferences with the\nfood and domestic intimacies of the more defenceless lower classes by\nmeans ultimately of legislation, and she had Marjorie up to see her,\ntook her for long walks while she influenced with earnestness and\nvigour, and at times had an air of bequeathing her mantle, movement and\neverything, quite definitely to her \"little Madge.\" She spoke of\ntraining her niece to succeed her, and bought all the novels of Mrs.\nHumphry Ward for her as they appeared, in the hope of quickening in her\nthat flame of politico-social ambition, that insatiable craving for\ndinner-parties with important guests, which is so distinctive of the\nmore influential variety of English womanhood. It was due rather to her\nown habit of monologue than to any reserve on the part of Marjorie that\nshe entertained the belief that her niece was entirely acquiescent in\nthese projects. They went into Marjorie's mind and passed. For nearly a\nweek, it is true, she had dramatized herself as the angel and\ninspiration of some great modern statesman, but this had been ousted by\na far more insistent dream, begotten by a picture she had seen in some\nexhibition, of a life of careless savagery, whose central and constantly\nrecurrent incident was the riding of barebacked horses out of\ndeep-shadowed forest into a foamy sunlit sea--in a costume that would\ncertainly have struck Aunt Plessington as a mistake.\n\nIf you could have seen Marjorie in her railway compartment, with the\nsunshine, sunshine mottled by the dirty window, tangled in her hair and\ncreeping to and fro over her face as the train followed the curves of\nthe line, you would certainly have agreed with me that she was pretty,\nand you might even have thought her beautiful. But it was necessary to\nfall in love with Marjorie before you could find her absolutely\nbeautiful. You might have speculated just what business was going on\nbehind those drowsily thoughtful eyes. If you are--as people\nsay--\"Victorian,\" you might even have whispered \"Day Dreams,\" at the\nsight of her....\n\nShe _was_ dreaming, and in a sense she was thinking of beautiful things.\nBut only mediately. She was thinking how very much she would enjoy\nspending freely and vigorously, quite a considerable amount of\nmoney,--heaps of money.\n\nYou see, the Carmels, with whom she had just been staying, were\nshockingly well off. They had two motor cars with them in the country,\nand the boys had the use of the second one as though it was just an old\nbicycle. Marjorie had had a cheap white dinner-dress, made the year\nbefore by a Chelsea French girl, a happy find of her mother's, and it\nwas shapely and simple and not at all bad, and she had worn her green\nbeads and her Egyptian necklace of jade; but Kitty Carmel and her sister\nhad had a new costume nearly every night, and pretty bracelets, and\nrubies, big pearls, and woven gold, and half a score of delightful and\nprecious things for neck and hair. Everything in the place was bright\nand good and abundant, the servants were easy and well-mannered, without\na trace of hurry or resentment, and one didn't have to be sharp about\nthe eggs and things at breakfast in the morning, or go without. All\nthrough the day, and even when they had gone to bathe from the smart\nlittle white and green shed on the upper lake, Marjorie had been made to\nfeel the insufficiency of her equipment. Kitty Carmel, being twenty-one,\npossessed her own cheque-book and had accounts running at half a dozen\nWest-end shops; and both sisters had furnished their own rooms according\nto their taste, with a sense of obvious effect that had set Marjorie\nspeculating just how a room might be done by a girl with a real eye for\ncolour and a real brain behind it....\n\nThe train slowed down for the seventeenth time. Marjorie looked up and\nread \"Buryhamstreet.\"\n\n\nSec. 3\n\nHer reverie vanished, and by a complex but almost instantaneous movement\nshe had her basket off the rack and the carriage door open. She became\nteeming anticipations. There, advancing in a string, were Daffy, her\nelder sister, Theodore, her younger brother, and the dog Toupee. Sydney\nand Rom hadn't come. Daffy was not copper red like her sister, but\nreally quite coarsely red-haired; she was bigger than Marjorie, and with\nirregular teeth instead of Marjorie's neat row; she confessed them in a\nbroad simple smile of welcome. Theodore was hatless, rustily\nfuzzy-headed, and now a wealth of quasi-humorous gesture. The dog Toupee\nwas straining at a leash, and doing its best in a yapping, confused\nmanner, to welcome the wrong people by getting its lead round their\nlegs.\n\n\"Toupee!\" cried Marjorie, waving the basket. \"Toupee!\"\n\nThey all called it Toupee because it was like one, but the name was\nforbidden in her father's hearing. Her father had decided that the\nproper name for a family dog in England is Towser, and did his utmost to\nsuppress a sobriquet that was at once unprecedented and not in the best\npossible taste. Which was why the whole family, with the exception of\nMrs. Pope, of course, stuck to Toupee....\n\nMarjorie flashed a second's contrast with the Carmel splendours.\n\n\"Hullo, old Daffy. What's it like?\" she asked, handing out the basket as\nher sister came up.\n\n\"It's a lark,\" said Daffy. \"Where's the dressing-bag?\"\n\n\"Thoddy,\" said Marjorie, following up the dressing-bag with the\nhold-all. \"Lend a hand.\"\n\n\"Stow it, Toupee,\" said Theodore, and caught the hold-all in time.\n\nIn another moment Marjorie was out of the train, had done the swift\nkissing proper to the occasion, and rolled a hand over Toupee's\nhead--Toupee, who, after a passionate lunge at a particularly savoury\ndrover from the next compartment, was now frantically trying to indicate\nthat Marjorie was the one human being he had ever cared for. Brother and\nsister were both sketching out the state of affairs at Buryhamstreet\nVicarage in rapid competitive jerks, each eager to tell things\nfirst--and the whole party moved confusedly towards the station exit.\nThings pelted into Marjorie's mind.\n\n\"We've got an old donkey-cart. I thought we shouldn't get here--ever....\nMadge, we can go up the church tower whenever we like, only old Daffy\nwon't let me shin up the flagstaff. It's _perfectly_ safe--you couldn't\nfall off if you tried.... Had positively to get out at the level\ncrossing and _pull_ him over.... There's a sort of moat in the\ngarden.... You never saw such furniture, Madge! And the study! It's hung\nwith texts, and stuffed with books about the Scarlet Woman.... Piano's\nrather good, it's a Broadwood.... The Dad's got a war on about the\ntennis net. Oh, frightful! You'll see. It won't keep up. He's had a\nletter kept waiting by the _Times_ for a fortnight, and it's a terror at\nbreakfast. Says the motor people have used influence to silence him.\nSays that's a game two can play at.... Old Sid got herself upset\nstuffing windfalls. Rather a sell for old Sid, considering how refined\nshe's getting....\"\n\nThere was a brief lull as the party got into the waiting governess cart.\nToupee, after a preliminary refusal to enter, made a determined attempt\non the best seat, from which he would be able to bark in a persistent,\nofficial manner at anything that passed. That suppressed, and Theodore's\nproposal to drive refused, they were able to start, and attention was\nconcentrated upon Daffy's negotiation of the station approach. Marjorie\nturned on her brother with a smile of warm affection.\n\n\"How are you, old Theodore?\"\n\n\"I'm all right, old Madge.\"\n\n\"Mummy?\"\n\n\"Every one's all right,\" said Theodore; \"if it wasn't for that damned\ninfernal net----\"\n\n\"Ssssh!\" cried both sisters together.\n\n\"_He_ says it,\" said Theodore.\n\nBoth sisters conveyed a grave and relentless disapproval.\n\n\"Pretty bit of road,\" said Marjorie. \"I like that little house at the\ncorner.\"\n\nA pause and the eyes of the sisters met.\n\n\"_He's_ here,\" said Daffy.\n\nMarjorie affected ignorance.\n\n\"Who's here?\"\n\n\"_Il vostro senior Miraculoso_.\"\n\n\"Just as though a fellow couldn't understand your kiddy little Italian,\"\nsaid Theodore, pulling Toupee's ear.\n\n\"Oh well, I thought he might be,\" said Marjorie, regardless of her\nbrother.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Daffy. \"I didn't know----\"\n\nBoth sisters looked at each other, and then both glanced at Theodore. He\nmet Marjorie's eyes with a grimace of profound solemnity.\n\n\"Little brothers,\" he said, \"shouldn't know. Just as though they didn't!\nRot! But let's change the subject, my dears, all the same. Lemme see.\nThere are a new sort of flea on Toupee, Madge, that he gets from the\nhens.\"\n\n\"_Is_ a new sort,\" corrected Daffy. \"He's horrider than ever, Madge. He\nleaves his soap in soak now to make us think he has used it. This is the\nvillage High Street. Isn't it jolly?\"\n\n\"Corners don't _bite_ people,\" said Theodore, with a critical eye to the\ndriving.\n\nMarjorie surveyed the High Street, while Daffy devoted a few moments to\nTheodore.\n\nThe particular success of the village was its brace of chestnut trees\nwhich, with that noble disregard of triteness which is one of the charms\nof villages the whole world over, shadowed the village smithy. On either\nside of the roadway between it and the paths was a careless width of\nvivid grass protected by white posts, which gave way to admit a generous\naccess on either hand to a jolly public house, leering over red blinds,\nand swinging a painted sign against its competitor. Several of the\ncottages had real thatch and most had porches; they had creepers nailed\nto their faces, and their gardens, crowded now with flowers, marigolds,\nbegonias, snapdragon, delphiniums, white foxgloves, and monkshood,\nseemed almost too good to be true. The doctor's house was pleasantly\nGeorgian, and the village shop, which was also a post and telegraph\noffice, lay back with a slight air of repletion, keeping its bulging\ndouble shop-windows wide open in a manifest attempt not to fall asleep.\nTwo score of shock-headed boys and pinafored girls were drilling upon a\nbald space of ground before the village school, and near by, the\nnational emotion at the ever-memorable Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria\nhad evoked an artistic drinking-fountain of grey stone. Beyond the\nsubsequent green--there were the correctest geese thereon--the village\nnarrowed almost to a normal road again, and then, recalling itself with\na start, lifted a little to the churchyard wall about the grey and ample\nchurch. \"It's just like all the villages that ever were,\" said Marjorie,\nand gave a cry of delight when Daffy, pointing to the white gate between\ntwo elm trees that led to the vicarage, remarked: \"That's us.\"\n\nIn confirmation of which statement, Sydney and Rom, the two sisters next\nin succession to Marjorie, and with a strong tendency to be twins in\nspite of the year between them, appeared in a state of vociferous\nincivility opening the way for the donkey-carriage. Sydney was Sydney,\nand Rom was just short for Romola--one of her mother's favourite\nheroines in fiction.\n\n\"Old Madge,\" they said; and then throwing respect to the winds, \"Old\nGargoo!\" which was Marjorie's forbidden nickname, and short for gargoyle\n(though surely only Victorian Gothic, ever produced a gargoyle that had\nthe remotest right to be associated with the neat brightness of\nMarjorie's face).\n\nShe overlooked the offence, and the pseudo-twins boarded the cart from\nbehind, whereupon the already overburthened donkey, being old and in a\nmanner wise, quickened his pace for the house to get the whole thing\nover.\n\n\"It's really an avenue,\" said Daffy; but Marjorie, with her mind strung\nup to the Carmel standards, couldn't agree. It was like calling a row of\nboy-scouts Potsdam grenadiers. The trees were at irregular distances, of\nvarious ages, and mostly on one side. Still it was a shady, pleasant\napproach.\n\nAnd the vicarage was truly very interesting and amusing. To these\nLondoners accustomed to live in a state of compression, elbows\npractically touching, in a tall, narrow fore-and-aft stucco house, all\nwindow and staircase, in a despondent Brompton square, there was an\neffect of maundering freedom about the place, of enlargement almost to\nthe pitch of adventure and sunlight to the pitch of intoxication. The\nhouse itself was long and low, as if a London house holidaying in the\ncountry had flung itself asprawl; it had two disconnected and roomy\nstaircases, and when it had exhausted itself completely as a house, it\nturned to the right and began again as rambling, empty stables, coach\nhouse, cart sheds, men's bedrooms up ladders, and outhouses of the most\nvarious kinds. On one hand was a neglected orchard, in the front of the\nhouse was a bald, worried-looking lawn area capable of simultaneous\ntennis and croquet, and at the other side a copious and confused\nvegetable and flower garden full of roses, honesty, hollyhocks, and\nsuchlike herbaceous biennials and perennials, lapsed at last into\nshrubbery, where a sickle-shaped, weedy lagoon of uncertain aims, which\nhad evidently, as a rustic bridge and a weeping willow confessed,\naspired to be an \"ornamental water,\" declined at last to ducks. And\nthere was access to the church, and the key of the church tower, and one\nwent across the corner of the lawn, and by a little iron gate into the\nchurchyard to decipher inscriptions, as if the tombs of all\nBuryhamstreet were no more than a part of the accommodation relinquished\nby the vicar's household.\n\nMarjorie was hurried over the chief points of all this at a breakneck\npace by Sydney and Rom, and when Sydney was called away to the horrors\nof practice--for Sydney in spite of considerable reluctance was destined\nby her father to be \"the musical one\"--Rom developed a copious\naffection, due apparently to some occult aesthetic influence in\nMarjorie's silvery-grey and green, and led her into the unlocked vestry,\nand there prayed in a whisper that she might be given \"one good hug,\njust _one_\"--and so they came out with their arms about each other very\naffectionately to visit the lagoon again. And then Rom remembered that\nMarjorie hadn't seen either the walnut-tree in the orchard, or the hen\nwith nine chicks....\n\nSomewhere among all these interests came tea and Mrs. Pope.\n\nMrs. Pope kissed her daughter with an air of having really wanted to\nkiss her half an hour ago, but of having been distracted since. She was\na fine-featured, anxious-looking little woman, with a close resemblance\nto all her children, in spite of the fact that they were markedly\ndissimilar one to the other, except only that they took their ruddy\ncolourings from their father. She was dressed in a neat blue dress that\nhad perhaps been hurriedly chosen, and her method of doing her hair was\na manifest compromise between duty and pleasure. She embarked at once\nupon an exposition of the bedroom arrangements, which evidently involved\ndifficult issues. Marjorie was to share a room with Daffy--that was the\ngist of it--as the only other available apartment, originally promised\nto Marjorie, had been secured by Mr. Pope for what he called his\n\"matutinal ablutions, _videlicet_ tub.\"\n\n\"Then, when your Aunt Plessington comes, you won't have to move,\" said\nMrs. Pope with an air of a special concession. \"Your father's looking\nforward to seeing you, but he mustn't be disturbed just yet. He's in the\nvicar's study. He's had his tea in there. He's writing a letter to the\n_Times_ answering something they said in a leader, and also a private\nnote calling attention to their delay in printing his previous\ncommunication, and he wants to be delicately ironical without being in\nany way offensive. He wants to hint without actually threatening that\nvery probably he will go over to the _Spectator_ altogether if they do\nnot become more attentive. The _Times_ used to print his letters\npunctually, but latterly these automobile people seem to have got hold\nof it.... He has the window on the lawn open, so that I think, perhaps,\nwe'd better not stay out here--for fear our voices might disturb him.\"\n\n\"Better get right round the other side of the church,\" said Daffy.\n\n\"He'd hear far less of us if we went indoors,\" said Mrs. Pope.\n\n\nSec. 4\n\nThe vicarage seemed tight packed with human interest for Marjorie and\nher mother and sisters. Going over houses is one of the amusements\nproper to her sex, and she and all three sisters and her mother, as soon\nas they had finished an inaudible tea, went to see the bedroom she was\nto share with Daffy, and then examined, carefully and in order, the\nfurniture and decoration of the other bedrooms, went through the rooms\ndownstairs, always excepting and avoiding very carefully and closing as\nmany doors as possible on, and hushing their voices whenever they\napproached the study in which her father was being delicately ironical\nwithout being offensive to the _Times_. None of them had seen any of the\nvicarage people at all--Mr. Pope had come on a bicycle and managed all\nthe negotiations--and it was curious to speculate about the individuals\nwhose personalities pervaded the worn and faded furnishings of the\nplace.\n\nThe Popes' keen-eyed inspection came at times, I think, dangerously near\nprying. The ideals of decoration and interests of the vanished family\nwere so absolutely dissimilar to the London standards as to arouse a\nsort of astonished wonder in their minds. Some of the things they\ndecided were perfectly hideous, some quaint, some were simply and weakly\nsilly. Everything was different from Hartstone Square. Daffy was perhaps\nmore inclined to contempt, and Mrs. Pope to refined amusement and witty\nappreciation than Marjorie. Marjorie felt there was something in these\npeople that she didn't begin to understand, she needed some missing\nclue that would unlock the secret of their confused peculiarity. She was\none of those people who have an almost instinctive turn for decoration\nin costume and furniture; she had already had a taste of how to do\nthings in arranging her rooms at Bennett College, Oxbridge, where also\nshe was in great demand among the richer girls as an adviser. She knew\nwhat it was to try and fail as well as to try and succeed, and these\npeople, she felt, hadn't tried for anything she comprehended. She\ncouldn't quite see why it was that there was at the same time an attempt\nat ornament and a disregard of beauty, she couldn't quite do as her\nmother did and dismiss it as an absurdity and have done with it. She\ncouldn't understand, too, why everything should be as if it were faded\nand weakened from something originally bright and clear.\n\nAll the rooms were thick with queer little objects that indicated a\nquite beaver-like industry in the production of \"work.\" There were\nembroidered covers for nearly every article on the wash-hand-stand, and\nmats of wool and crochet wherever anything stood on anything; there were\n\"tidies\" everywhere, and odd little brackets covered with gilded and\nvarnished fir cones and bearing framed photographs and little jars and\nall sorts of colourless, dusty little objects, and everywhere on the\nwalls tacks sustained crossed fans with badly painted flowers or\ntransfer pictures. There was a jar on the bedroom mantel covered with\nvarnished postage stamps and containing grey-haired dried grasses. There\nseemed to be a moral element in all this, for in the room Sydney shared\nwith Rom there was a decorative piece of lettering which declared that--\n\n    \"Something attempted, something done,\n    Has earned a night's repose.\"\n\nThere were a great number of texts that set Marjorie's mind stirring\ndimly with intimations of a missed significance. Over her own bed,\nwithin the lattice of an Oxford frame, was the photograph of a picture\nof an extremely composed young woman in a trailing robe, clinging to the\nRock of Ages in the midst of histrionically aggressive waves, and she\nhad a feeling, rather than a thought, that perhaps for all the oddity of\nthe presentation it did convey something acutely desirable, that she\nherself had had moods when she would have found something very\ncomforting in just such an impassioned grip. And on a framed,\nfloriferous card, these incomprehensible words:\n\n    |================================|\n    |THY GRACE IS SUFFICIENT FOR ME. |\n    |================================|\n\nseemed to be saying something to her tantalizingly just outside her\nrange of apprehension.\n\nDid all these things light up somehow to those dispossessed people--from\nsome angle she didn't attain? Were they living and moving realities when\nthose others were at home again?\n\nThe drawing-room had no texts; it was altogether more pretentious and\nless haunted by the faint and faded flavour of religion that pervaded\nthe bedrooms. It had, however, evidences of travel in Switzerland and\nthe Mediterranean. There was a piano in black and gold, a little out of\ntune, and surmounted by a Benares brass jar, enveloping a scarlet\ngeranium in a pot. There was a Japanese screen of gold wrought upon\nblack, that screened nothing. There was a framed chromo-lithograph of\nJerusalem hot in the sunset, and another of Jerusalem cold under a\nsub-tropical moon, and there were gourds, roses of Jericho, sandalwood\nrosaries and kindred trash from the Holy Land in no little profusion\nupon a what-not. Such books as the room had contained had been arranged\nas symmetrically as possible about a large, pink-shaded lamp upon the\nclaret- cloth of a round table, and were to be replaced, Mrs.\nPope said, at their departure. At present they were piled on a\nside-table. The girls had been through them all, and were ready with the\nchoicer morsels for Marjorie's amusement. There was \"Black Beauty,\" the\nsympathetic story of a soundly Anglican horse, and a large Bible\nextra-illustrated with photographs of every well-known scriptural\npicture from Michael Angelo to Dore, and a book of injunctions to young\nladies upon their behaviour and deportment that Rom and Sydney found\nparticularly entertaining. Marjorie discovered that Sydney had picked up\na new favourite phrase. \"I'm afraid we're all dreadfully cynical,\" said\nSydney, several times.\n\nA more advanced note was struck by a copy of \"Aurora Leigh,\" richly\nunderlined in pencil, but with exclamation marks at some of the bolder\npassages....\n\nAnd presently, still avoiding the open study window very elaborately,\nthis little group of twentieth century people went again into the\nchurch--the church whose foundations were laid in A.D. 912--foundations\nof rubble and cement that included flat Roman bricks from a still\nremoter basilica. Their voices dropped instinctively, as\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}
{"id": "pg19_004", "title": "The Genius by Theodore Dreiser", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31824", "tokens": 8192, "chars": 34254, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nBOOK I\n------\nYOUTH\n\n\n\n\nTHE \"GENIUS\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nThis story has its beginnings in the town of Alexandria, Illinois,\nbetween 1884 and 1889, at the time when the place had a population of\nsomewhere near ten thousand. There was about it just enough of the air\nof a city to relieve it of the sense of rural life. It had one\nstreet-car line, a theatre,--or rather, an opera house, so-called (why\nno one might say, for no opera was ever performed there)--two railroads,\nwith their stations, and a business district, composed of four brisk\nsides to a public square. In the square were the county court-house and\nfour newspapers. These two morning and two evening papers made the\npopulation fairly aware of the fact that life was full of issues, local\nand national, and that there were many interesting and varied things to\ndo. On the edge of town, several lakes and a pretty stream--perhaps\nAlexandria's most pleasant feature--gave it an atmosphere not unakin to\nthat of a moderate-priced summer resort. Architecturally the town was\nnot new. It was mostly built of wood, as all American towns were at this\ntime, but laid out prettily in some sections, with houses that sat back\nin great yards, far from the streets, with flower beds, brick walks, and\ngreen trees as concomitants of a comfortable home life. Alexandria was a\ncity of young Americans. Its spirit was young. Life was all before\nalmost everybody. It was really good to be alive.\n\nIn one part of this city there lived a family which in its character and\ncomposition might well have been considered typically American and\nmiddle western. It was not by any means poor--or, at least, did not\nconsider itself so; it was in no sense rich. Thomas Jefferson Witla, the\nfather, was a sewing machine agent with the general agency in that\ncounty of one of the best known and best selling machines made. From\neach twenty, thirty-five or sixty-dollar machine which he sold, he took\na profit of thirty-five per cent. The sale of machines was not great,\nbut it was enough to yield him nearly two thousand dollars a year; and\non that he had managed to buy a house and lot, to furnish it\ncomfortably, to send his children to school, and to maintain a local\nstore on the public square where the latest styles of machines were\ndisplayed. He also took old machines of other makes in exchange,\nallowing ten to fifteen dollars on the purchase price of a new machine.\nHe also repaired machines,--and with that peculiar energy of the\nAmerican mind, he tried to do a little insurance business in addition.\nHis first idea was that his son, Eugene Tennyson Witla, might take\ncharge of this latter work, once he became old enough and the insurance\ntrade had developed sufficiently. He did not know what his son might\nturn out to be, but it was always well to have an anchor to windward.\n\nHe was a quick, wiry, active man of no great stature, sandy-haired, with\nblue eyes with noticeable eye-brows, an eagle nose, and a rather radiant\nand ingratiating smile. Service as a canvassing salesman, endeavoring to\npersuade recalcitrant wives and indifferent or conservative husbands to\nrealize that they really needed a new machine in their home, had taught\nhim caution, tact, savoir faire. He knew how to approach people\npleasantly. His wife thought too much so.\n\nCertainly he was honest, hard working, and thrifty. They had been\nwaiting a long time for the day when they could say they owned their own\nhome and had a little something laid away for emergencies. That day had\ncome, and life was not half bad. Their house was neat,--white with green\nshutters, surrounded by a yard with well kept flower beds, a smooth\nlawn, and some few shapely and broad spreading trees. There was a front\nporch with rockers, a swing under one tree, a hammock under another, a\nbuggy and several canvassing wagons in a nearby stable. Witla liked\ndogs, so there were two collies. Mrs. Witla liked live things, so there\nwere a canary bird, a cat, some chickens, and a bird house set aloft on\na pole where a few blue-birds made their home. It was a nice little\nplace, and Mr. and Mrs. Witla were rather proud of it.\n\nMiriam Witla was a good wife to her husband. A daughter of a hay and\ngrain dealer in Wooster, a small town near Alexandria in McLean County,\nshe had never been farther out into the world than Springfield and\nChicago. She had gone to Springfield as a very young girl, to see\nLincoln buried, and once with her husband she had gone to the state fair\nor exposition which was held annually in those days on the lake front in\nChicago. She was well preserved, good looking, poetic under a marked\noutward reserve. It was she who had insisted upon naming her only son\nEugene Tennyson, a tribute at once to a brother Eugene, and to the\ncelebrated romanticist of verse, because she had been so impressed with\nhis \"Idylls of the King.\"\n\nEugene Tennyson seemed rather strong to Witla pere, as the name of a\nmiddle-western American boy, but he loved his wife and gave her her way\nin most things. He rather liked the names of Sylvia and Myrtle with\nwhich she had christened the two girls. All three of the children were\ngood looking,--Sylvia, a girl of twenty-one, with black hair, dark eyes,\nfull blown like a rose, healthy, active, smiling. Myrtle was of a less\nvigorous constitution, small, pale, shy, but intensely sweet--like the\nflower she was named after, her mother said. She was inclined to be\nstudious and reflective, to read verse and dream. The young bloods of\nthe high school were all crazy to talk to Myrtle and to walk with her,\nbut they could find no words. And she herself did not know what to say\nto them.\n\nEugene Witla was the apple of his family's eye, younger than either of\nhis two sisters by two years. He had straight smooth black hair, dark\nalmond-shaped eyes, a straight nose, a shapely but not aggressive chin;\nhis teeth were even and white, showing with a curious delicacy when he\nsmiled, as if he were proud of them. He was not very strong to begin\nwith, moody, and to a notable extent artistic. Because of a weak stomach\nand a semi-anaemic condition, he did not really appear as strong as he\nwas. He had emotion, fire, longings, that were concealed behind a wall\nof reserve. He was shy, proud, sensitive, and very uncertain of himself.\n\nWhen at home he lounged about the house, reading Dickens, Thackeray,\nScott and Poe. He browsed idly through one book after another, wondering\nabout life. The great cities appealed to him. He thought of travel as a\nwonderful thing. In school he read Taine and Gibbon between recitation\nhours, wondering at the luxury and beauty of the great courts of the\nworld. He cared nothing for grammar, nothing for mathematics, nothing\nfor botany or physics, except odd bits here and there. Curious facts\nwould strike him--the composition of clouds, the composition of water,\nthe chemical elements of the earth. He liked to lie in the hammock at\nhome, spring, summer or fall, and look at the blue sky showing through\nthe trees. A soaring buzzard poised in speculative flight held his\nattention fixedly. The wonder of a snowy cloud, high piled like wool,\nand drifting as an island, was like a song to him. He had wit, a keen\nsense of humor, a sense of pathos. Sometimes he thought he would draw;\nsometimes write. He had a little talent for both, he thought, but did\npractically nothing with either. He would sketch now and then, but only\nfragments--a small roof-top, with smoke curling from a chimney and birds\nflying; a bit of water with a willow bending over it and perhaps a boat\nanchored; a mill pond with ducks afloat, and a boy or woman on the bank.\nHe really had no great talent for interpretation at this time, only an\nintense sense of beauty. The beauty of a bird in flight, a rose in\nbloom, a tree swaying in the wind--these held him. He would walk the\nstreets of his native town at night, admiring the brightness of the\nstore windows, the sense of youth and enthusiasm that went with a crowd;\nthe sense of love and comfort and home that spoke through the glowing\nwindows of houses set back among trees.\n\nHe admired girls,--was mad about them,--but only about those who were\ntruly beautiful. There were two or three in his school who reminded him\nof poetic phrases he had come across--\"beauty like a tightened bow,\"\n\"thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,\" \"a dancing shape, an image\ngay\"--but he could not talk to them with ease. They were beautiful but\nso distant. He invested them with more beauty than they had; the beauty\nwas in his own soul. But he did not know that. One girl whose yellow\nhair lay upon her neck in great yellow braids like ripe corn, was\nconstantly in his thoughts. He worshiped her from afar but she never\nknew. She never knew what solemn black eyes burned at her when she was\nnot looking. She left Alexandria, her family moving to another town, and\nin time he recovered, for there is much of beauty. But the color of her\nhair and the wonder of her neck stayed with him always.\n\nThere was some plan on the part of Witla to send these children to\ncollege, but none of them showed any great desire for education. They\nwere perhaps wiser than books, for they were living in the realm of\nimagination and feeling. Sylvia longed to be a mother, and was married\nat twenty-one to Henry Burgess, the son of Benjamin C. Burgess, editor\nof the _Morning Appeal_. There was a baby the first year. Myrtle was\ndreaming through algebra and trigonometry, wondering whether she would\nteach or get married, for the moderate prosperity of the family demanded\nthat she do something. Eugene mooned through his studies, learning\nnothing practical. He wrote a little, but his efforts at sixteen were\npuerile. He drew, but there was no one to tell him whether there was any\nmerit in the things he did or not. Practical matters were generally\nwithout significance to him. But he was overawed by the fact that the\nworld demanded practical service--buying and selling like his father,\nclerking in stores, running big business. It was a confusing maze, and\nhe wondered, even at this age, what was to become of him. He did not\nobject to the kind of work his father was doing, but it did not interest\nhim. For himself he knew it would be a pointless, dreary way of making a\nliving, and as for insurance, that was equally bad. He could hardly\nbring himself to read through the long rigamarole of specifications\nwhich each insurance paper itemized. There were times--evenings and\nSaturdays--when he clerked in his father's store, but it was painful\nwork. His mind was not in it.\n\nAs early as his twelfth year his father had begun to see that Eugene was\nnot cut out for business, and by the time he was sixteen he was\nconvinced of it. From the trend of his reading and his percentage marks\nat school, he was equally convinced that the boy was not interested in\nhis studies. Myrtle, who was two classes ahead of him but sometimes in\nthe same room, reported that he dreamed too much. He was always looking\nout of the window.\n\nEugene's experience with girls had not been very wide. There were those\nvery minor things that occur in early youth--girls whom we furtively\nkiss, or who furtively kiss us--the latter had been the case with\nEugene. He had no particular interest in any one girl. At fourteen he\nhad been picked by a little girl at a party as an affinity, for the\nevening at least, and in a game of \"post-office\" had enjoyed the wonder\nof a girl's arms around him in a dark room and a girl's lips against\nhis; but since then there had been no re-encounter of any kind. He had\ndreamed of love, with this one experience as a basis, but always in a\nshy, distant way. He was afraid of girls, and they, to tell the truth,\nwere afraid of him. They could not make him out.\n\nBut in the fall of his seventeenth year Eugene came into contact with\none girl who made a profound impression on him. Stella Appleton was a\nnotably beautiful creature. She was very fair, Eugene's own age, with\nvery blue eyes and a slender sylph-like body. She was gay and debonair\nin an enticing way, without really realizing how dangerous she was to\nthe average, susceptible male heart. She liked to flirt with the boys\nbecause it amused her, and not because she cared for anyone in\nparticular. There was no petty meanness about it, however, for she\nthought they were all rather nice, the less clever appealing to her\nalmost more than the sophisticated. She may have liked Eugene originally\nbecause of his shyness.\n\nHe saw her first at the beginning of his last school year when she came\nto the city and entered the second high school class. Her father had\ncome from Moline, Illinois, to take a position as manager of a new\npulley manufactory which was just starting. She had quickly become\nfriends with his sister Myrtle, being perhaps attracted by her quiet\nways, as Myrtle was by Stella's gaiety.\n\nOne afternoon, as Myrtle and Stella were on Main Street, walking home\nfrom the post office, they met Eugene, who was on his way to visit a boy\nfriend. He was really bashful; and when he saw them approaching he\nwanted to escape, but there was no way. They saw him, and Stella\napproached confidently enough. Myrtle was anxious to intercept him,\nbecause she had her pretty companion with her.\n\n\"You haven't been home, have you?\" she asked, stopping. This was her\nchance to introduce Stella; Eugene couldn't escape. \"Miss Appleton, this\nis my brother Eugene.\"\n\nStella gave him a sunny encouraging smile, and her hand, which he took\ngingerly. He was plainly nervous.\n\n\"I'm not very clean,\" he said apologetically. \"I've been helping father\nfix a buggy.\"\n\n\"Oh, we don't mind,\" said Myrtle. \"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"Over to Harry Morris's,\" he explained.\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"We're going for hickory nuts.\"\n\n\"Oh, I wish I had some,\" said Stella.\n\n\"I'll bring you some,\" he volunteered gallantly.\n\nShe smiled again. \"I wish you would.\"\n\nShe almost proposed that they should be taken along, but inexperience\nhindered her.\n\nEugene was struck with all her charm at once. She seemed like one of\nthose unattainable creatures who had swum into his ken a little earlier\nand disappeared. There was something of the girl with the corn-\nhair about her, only she had been more human, less like a dream. This\ngirl was fine, delicate, pink, like porcelain. She was fragile and yet\nvirile. He caught his breath, but he was more or less afraid of her. He\ndid not know what she might be thinking of him.\n\n\"Well, we're going on to the house,\" said Myrtle.\n\n\"I'd go along if I hadn't promised Harry I'd come over.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right,\" replied Myrtle. \"We don't mind.\"\n\nHe withdrew, feeling that he had made a very poor impression. Stella's\neyes had been on him in a very inquiring way. She looked after him when\nhe had gone.\n\n\"Isn't he nice?\" she said to Myrtle frankly.\n\n\"I think so,\" replied Myrtle; \"kind o'. He's too moody, though.\"\n\n\"What makes him?\"\n\n\"He isn't very strong.\"\n\n\"I think he has a nice smile.\"\n\n\"I'll tell him!\"\n\n\"No, please don't! You won't, will you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"But he _has_ a nice smile.\"\n\n\"I'll ask you round to the house some evening and you can meet him\nagain.\"\n\n\"I'd like to,\" said Stella. \"It would be a lot of fun.\"\n\n\"Come out Saturday evening and stay all night. He's home then.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Stella. \"Won't that be fine!\"\n\n\"I believe you like him!\" laughed Myrtle.\n\n\"I think he's awfully nice,\" said Stella, simply.\n\nThe second meeting happened on Saturday evening as arranged, when he\ncame home from his odd day at his father's insurance office. Stella had\ncome to supper. Eugene saw her through the open sitting room door, as he\nbounded upstairs to change his clothes, for he had a fire of youth which\nno sickness of stomach or weakness of lungs could overcome at this age.\nA thrill of anticipation ran over his body. He took especial pains with\nhis toilet, adjusting a red tie to a nicety, and parting his hair\ncarefully in the middle. He came down after a while, conscious that he\nhad to say something smart, worthy of himself, or she would not see how\nattractive he was; and yet he was fearful as to the result. When he\nentered the sitting room she was sitting with his sister before an open\nfire-place, the glow of a lamp with a red-flowered shade warmly\nilluminating the room. It was a commonplace room, with its blue\ncloth-covered center table, its chairs of stereotyped factory design,\nand its bookcase of novels and histories, but it was homey, and the\nsense of hominess was strong.\n\nMrs. Witla was in and out occasionally, looking for things which\nappertained to her functions as house-mother. The father was not home\nyet; he would get there by supper-time, having been to some outlying\ntown of the county trying to sell a machine. Eugene was indifferent to\nhis presence or absence. Mr. Witla had a fund of humor which extended to\njoking with his son and daughters, when he was feeling good, to noting\ntheir budding interest in the opposite sex; to predicting some\ncommonplace climax to their one grand passion when it should come. He\nwas fond of telling Myrtle that she would one day marry a horse-doctor.\nAs for Eugene, he predicted a certain Elsa Brown, who, his wife said,\nhad greasy curls. This did not irritate either Myrtle or Eugene. It even\nbrought a wry smile to Eugene's face for he was fond of a jest; but he\nsaw his father pretty clearly even at this age. He saw the smallness of\nhis business, the ridiculousness of any such profession having any claim\non him. He never wanted to say anything, but there was in him a burning\nopposition to the commonplace, a molten pit in a crater of reserve,\nwhich smoked ominously now and then for anyone who could have read.\nNeither his father nor his mother understood him. To them he was a\npeculiar boy, dreamy, sickly, unwitting, as yet, of what he really\nwanted.\n\n\"Oh, here you are!\" said Myrtle, when he came in. \"Come and sit down.\"\n\nStella gave him an enticing smile.\n\nHe walked to the mantel-piece and stood there, posing. He wanted to\nimpress this girl, and he did not quite know how. He was almost lost for\nanything to say.\n\n\"You can't guess what we've been doing!\" his sister chirped helpfully.\n\n\"Well--what?\" he replied blankly.\n\n\"You ought to guess. Can't you be nice and guess?\"\n\n\"One guess, anyhow,\" put in Stella.\n\n\"Toasting pop-corn,\" he ventured with a half smile.\n\n\"You're warm.\" It was Myrtle speaking.\n\nStella looked at him with round blue eyes. \"One more guess,\" she\nsuggested.\n\n\"Chestnuts!\" he guessed.\n\nShe nodded her head gaily. \"What hair!\" he thought. Then--\"Where are\nthey?\"\n\n\"Here's one,\" laughed his new acquaintance, holding out a tiny hand.\n\nUnder her laughing encouragement he was finding his voice. \"Stingy!\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Now isn't that mean,\" she exclaimed. \"I gave him the only one I had.\nDon't you give him any of yours, Myrtle.\"\n\n\"I take it back,\" he pleaded. \"I didn't know.\"\n\n\"I won't!\" exclaimed Myrtle. \"Here, Stella,\" and she held out the few\nnuts she had left, \"take these, and don't you give him any!\" She put\nthem in Stella's eager hands.\n\nHe saw her meaning. It was an invitation to a contest. She wanted him to\ntry to make her give him some. He fell in with her plan.\n\n\"Here!\" He stretched out his palm. \"That's not right!\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"One, anyhow,\" he insisted.\n\nHer head moved negatively from side to side slowly.\n\n\"One,\" he pleaded, drawing near.\n\nAgain the golden negative. But her hand was at the side nearest him,\nwhere he could seize it. She started to pass its contents behind her to\nthe other hand but he jumped and caught it.\n\n\"Myrtle! Quick!\" she called.\n\nMyrtle came. It was a three-handed struggle. In the midst of the contest\nStella twisted and rose to her feet. Her hair brushed his face. He held\nher tiny hand firmly. For a moment he looked into her eyes. What was it?\nHe could not say. Only he half let go and gave her the victory.\n\n\"There,\" she smiled. \"Now I'll give you one.\"\n\nHe took it, laughing. What he wanted was to take her in his arms.\n\nA little while before supper his father came in and sat down, but\npresently took a Chicago paper and went into the dining room to read.\nThen his mother called them to the table, and he sat by Stella. He was\nintensely interested in what she did and said. If her lips moved he\nnoted just how. When her teeth showed he thought they were lovely. A\nlittle ringlet on her forehead beckoned him like a golden finger. He\nfelt the wonder of the poetic phrase, \"the shining strands of her hair.\"\n\nAfter dinner he and Myrtle and Stella went back to the sitting room. His\nfather stayed behind to read, his mother to wash dishes. Myrtle left the\nroom after a bit to help her mother, and then these two were left alone.\nHe hadn't much to say, now that they were together--he couldn't talk.\nSomething about her beauty kept him silent.\n\n\"Do you like school?\" she asked after a time. She felt as if they must\ntalk.\n\n\"Only fairly well,\" he replied. \"I'm not much interested. I think I'll\nquit one of these days and go to work.\"\n\n\"What do you expect to do?\"\n\n\"I don't know yet--I'd like to be an artist.\" He confessed his ambition\nfor the first time in his life--why, he could not have said.\n\nStella took no note of it.\n\n\"I was afraid they wouldn't let me enter second year high school, but\nthey did,\" she remarked. \"The superintendent at Moline had to write the\nsuperintendent here.\"\n\n\"They're mean about those things,\" he cogitated.\n\nShe got up and went to the bookcase to look at the books. He followed\nafter a little.\n\n\"Do you like Dickens?\" she asked.\n\nHe nodded his head solemnly in approval. \"Pretty much,\" he said.\n\n\"I can't like him. He's too long drawn out. I like Scott better.\"\n\n\"I like Scott,\" he said.\n\n\"I'll tell you a lovely book that I like.\" She paused, her lips parted\ntrying to remember the name. She lifted her hand as though to pick the\ntitle out of the air. \"The Fair God,\" she exclaimed at last.\n\n\"Yes--it's fine,\" he approved. \"I thought the scene in the old Aztec\ntemple where they were going to sacrifice Ahwahee was so wonderful!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I liked that,\" she added. She pulled out \"Ben Hur\" and turned\nits leaves idly. \"And this was so good.\"\n\n\"Wonderful!\"\n\nThey paused and she went to the window, standing under the cheap lace\ncurtains. It was a moonlight night. The rows of trees that lined the\nstreet on either side were leafless; the grass brown and dead. Through\nthe thin, interlaced twigs that were like silver filigree they could see\nthe lamps of other houses shining through half-drawn blinds. A man went\nby, a black shadow in the half-light.\n\n\"Isn't it lovely?\" she said.\n\nEugene came near. \"It's fine,\" he answered.\n\n\"I wish it were cold enough to skate. Do you skate?\" She turned to him.\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" he replied.\n\n\"My, it's so nice on a moonlit night. I used to skate a lot at Moline.\"\n\n\"We skate a lot here. There're two lakes, you know.\"\n\nHe thought of the clear crystal nights when the ice of Green Lake had\nsplit every so often with a great resounding rumble. He thought of the\ncrowds of boys and girls shouting, the distant shadows, the stars. Up to\nnow he had never found any girl to skate with successfully. He had never\nfelt just easy with anyone. He had tried it, but once he had fallen with\na girl, and it had almost cured him of skating forever. He felt as\nthough he could skate with Stella. He felt that she might like to skate\nwith him.\n\n\"When it gets colder we might go,\" he ventured. \"Myrtle skates.\"\n\n\"Oh, that'll be fine!\" she applauded.\n\nStill she looked out into the street.\n\nAfter a bit she came back to the fire and stood before him, pensively\nlooking down.\n\n\"Do you think your father will stay here?\" he asked.\n\n\"He says so. He likes it very much.\"\n\n\"Do you?\"\n\n\"Yes--now.\"\n\n\"Why _now_?\"\n\n\"Oh, I didn't like it at first.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Oh, I guess it was because I didn't know anybody. I like it though,\nnow.\" She lifted her eyes.\n\nHe drew a little nearer.\n\n\"It's a nice place,\" he said, \"but there isn't much for me here. I think\nI'll leave next year.\"\n\n\"Where do you think you'll go?\"\n\n\"To Chicago. I don't want to stay here.\"\n\nShe turned her body toward the fire and he moved to a chair behind her,\nleaning on its back. She felt him there rather close, but did not move.\nHe was surprising himself.\n\n\"Aren't you ever coming back?\" she asked.\n\n\"Maybe. It all depends. I suppose so.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't think you'd want to leave yet.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"You say it's so nice.\"\n\nHe made no answer and she looked over her shoulder. He was leaning very\nmuch toward her.\n\n\"Will you skate with me this winter?\" he asked meaningly.\n\nShe nodded her head.\n\nMyrtle came in.\n\n\"What are you two talking about?\" she asked.\n\n\"The fine skating we have here,\" he said.\n\n\"I love to skate,\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"So do I,\" added Stella. \"It's heavenly.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nSome of the incidents of this courtship that followed, ephemeral as it\nwas, left a profound impression on Eugene's mind. They met to skate not\nlong after, for the snow came and the ice and there was wonderful\nskating on Green Lake. The frost was so prolonged that men with horses\nand ice-saws were cutting blocks a foot thick over at Miller's Point,\nwhere the ice houses were. Almost every day after Thanksgiving there\nwere crowds of boys and girls from the schools scooting about like water\nskippers. Eugene could not always go on week evenings and Saturdays\nbecause he had to assist his father at the store. But at regular\nintervals he could ask Myrtle to get Stella and let them all go together\nat night. And at other times he would ask her to go alone. Not\ninfrequently she did.\n\nOn one particular occasion they were below a group of houses which crept\nnear the lake on high ground. The moon was up, its wooing rays reflected\nin the polished surfaces of the ice. Through the black masses of trees\nthat lined the shore could be seen the glow of windows, yellow and\nhomey. Eugene and Stella had slowed up to turn about, having left the\ncrowd of skaters some distance back. Stella's golden curls were covered,\nexcept for a few ringlets, with a French cap; her body, to below the\nhips, encased in a white wool Jersey, close-fitting and shapely. The\nskirt below was a grey mixture of thick wool and the stockings were\ncovered by white woolen leggings. She looked tempting and knew it.\n\nSuddenly, as they turned, one of her skates came loose and she hobbled\nand exclaimed about it. \"Wait,\" said Eugene, \"I'll fix it.\"\n\nShe stood before him and he fell to his knees, undoing the twisted\nstrap. When he had the skate off and ready for her foot he looked up,\nand she looked down on him, smiling. He dropped the skate and flung his\narms around her hips, laying his head against her waist.\n\n\"You're a bad boy,\" she said.\n\nFor a few minutes she kept silent, for as the center of this lovely\nscene she was divine. While he held her she pulled off his wool cap and\nlaid her hand on his hair. It almost brought tears to his eyes, he was\nso happy. At the same time it awakened a tremendous passion. He clutched\nher significantly.\n\n\"Fix my skate, now,\" she said wisely.\n\nHe got up to hug her but she would not let him.\n\n\"No, no,\" she protested. \"You mustn't do like that. I won't come with\nyou if you do.\"\n\n\"Oh, Stella!\" he pleaded.\n\n\"I mean it,\" she insisted. \"You mustn't do like that.\"\n\nHe subsided, hurt, half angry. But he feared her will. She was really\nnot as ready for caresses as he had thought.\n\nAnother time a sleighing party was given by some school girls, and\nStella, Eugene and Myrtle were invited. It was a night of snow and\nstars, not too cold but bracing. A great box-wagon had been dismantled\nof its body and the latter put on runners and filled with straw and warm\nrobes. Eugene and Myrtle, like the others, had been picked up at their\ndoor after the sleigh had gone the rounds of some ten peaceful little\nhomes. Stella was not in yet, but in a little while her house was\nreached.\n\n\"Get in here,\" called Myrtle, though she was half the length of the box\naway from Eugene. Her request made him angry. \"Sit by me,\" he called,\nfearful that she would not. She climbed in by Myrtle but finding the\nspace not to her liking moved farther down. Eugene made a special effort\nto have room by him, and she came there as though by accident. He drew a\nbuffalo robe around her and thrilled to think that she was really there.\nThe sleigh went jingling around the town for others, and finally struck\nout into the country. It passed great patches of dark woods silent in\nthe snow, little white frame farmhouses snuggled close to the ground,\nand with windows that gleamed in a vague romantic way. The stars were\ncountless and keen. The whole scene made a tremendous impression on him,\nfor he was in love, and here beside him, in the shadow, her face palely\noutlined, was this girl. He could make out the sweetness of her cheek,\nher eyes, the softness of her hair.\n\nThere was a good deal of chatter and singing, and in the midst of these\ndistractions he managed to slip an arm about her waist, to get her hand\nin his, to look close into her eyes, trying to divine their expression.\nShe was always coy with him, not wholly yielding. Three or four times he\nkissed her cheek furtively and once her mouth. In a dark place he pulled\nher vigorously to him, putting a long, sensuous kiss on her lips that\nfrightened her.\n\n\"No,\" she protested, nervously. \"You mustn't.\"\n\nHe ceased for a time, feeling that he had pressed his advantage too\nclosely. But the night in all its beauty, and she in hers made a lasting\nimpression.\n\n******\n\n\"I think we ought to get Eugene into newspaper work or something like\nthat,\" Witla senior suggested to his wife.\n\n\"It looks as though that's all he would be good for, at least now,\"\nreplied Mrs. Witla, who was satisfied that her boy had not yet found\nhimself. \"I think he'll do something better later on. His health isn't\nvery good, you know.\"\n\nWitla half suspected that his boy was naturally lazy, but he wasn't\nsure. He suggested that Benjamin C. Burgess, the prospective\nfather-in-law of Sylvia and the editor and proprietor of the _Morning\nAppeal_, might give him a place as a reporter or type-setter in order\nthat he might learn the business from the ground up. The _Appeal_\ncarried few employees, but Mr. Burgess might have no objections to\nstarting Eugene as a reporter if he could write, or as a student of\ntype-setting, or both. He appealed to Burgess one day on the street.\n\n\"Say, Burgess,\" he said, \"you wouldn't have a place over in your shop\nfor that boy of mine, would you? He likes to scribble a little, I\nnotice. I think he pretends to draw a little, too, though I guess it\ndoesn't amount to much. He ought to get into something. He isn't doing\nanything at school. Maybe he could learn type-setting. It wouldn't hurt\nhim to begin at the bottom if he's going to follow that line. It\nwouldn't matter what you paid him to begin with.\"\n\nBurgess thought. He had seen Eugene around town, knew no harm of him\nexcept that he was lackadaisical and rather moody.\n\n\"Send him in to see me some day,\" he replied noncommittally. \"I might do\nsomething for him.\"\n\n\"I'd certainly be much obliged to you if you would,\" said Witla. \"He is\nnot doing much good as it is now,\" and the two men parted.\n\nHe went home and told Eugene. \"Burgess says he might give you a position\nas a type-setter or a reporter on the _Appeal_ if you'd come in and see\nhim some day,\" he explained, looking over to where his son was reading\nby the lamp.\n\n\"Does he?\" replied Eugene calmly. \"Well, I can't write. I might set\ntype. Did you ask him?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Witla. \"You'd better go to him some day.\"\n\nEugene bit his lip. He realized this was a commentary on his loafing\npropensities. He wasn't doing very well, that was certain. Still\ntype-setting was no bright field for a person of his temperament. \"I\nwill,\" he concluded, \"when school's over.\"\n\n\"Better speak before school ends. Some of the other fellows might ask\nfor it around that time. It wouldn't hurt you to try your hand at it.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Eugene obediently.\n\nHe stopped in one sunny April afternoon at Mr. Burgess' office. It was\non the ground floor of the three-story _Appeal_ building in the public\nsquare. Mr. Burgess, a fat man, slightly bald, looked at him quizzically\nover his steel rimmed spectacles. What little hair he had was gray.\n\n\"So you think you would like to go into the newspaper business, do you?\"\nqueried Burgess.\n\n\"I'd like to try my hand at it,\" replied the boy. \"I'd like to see\nwhether I like it.\"\n\n\"I can tell you right now there's very little in it. Your father says\nyou like to write.\"\n\n\"I'd like to well enough, but I don't think I can. I wouldn't mind\nlearning type-setting. If I ever could write I'd be perfectly willing\nto.\"\n\n\"When do you think you'd like to start?\"\n\n\"At the end of school, if it's all the same to you.\"\n\n\"It doesn't make much difference. I'm not really in need of anybody, but\nI could use you. Would you be satisfied with five a week?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, come in when you are ready. I'll see what I can do.\"\n\nHe waved the prospective type-setter away with a movement of his fat\nhand, and turned to his black walnut desk, dingy, covered with\nnewspapers, and lit by a green shaded electric light. Eugene went out,\nthe smell of fresh printing ink in his nose, and the equally aggressive\nsmell of damp newspapers. It was going to be an interesting experience,\nhe thought, but perhaps a waste of time. He did not think so much of\nAlexandria. Some time he was going to get out of it.\n\nThe office of the _Appeal_ was not different from that of any other\ncountry newspaper office within the confines of our two hemispheres. On\nthe ground floor in front was the business office, and in the rear the\none large flat bed press and the job presses. On the second floor was\nthe composing room with its rows of type cases on their high racks--for\nthis newspaper was, like most other country newspapers, still set by\nhand; and in front was the one dingy office of the so-called editor, or\nmanaging editor, or city editor--for all three were the same person, a\nMr. Caleb Williams whom Burgess had picked up in times past from heaven\nknows where. Williams was a small, lean, wiry man, with a black pointed\nbeard and a glass eye which fixed you oddly with its black pupil. He\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}
{"id": "pg19_005", "title": "The Magnetic North by Elizabeth Robins", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10038", "tokens": 8192, "chars": 32999, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nWINTER CAMP ON THE YUKON\n\n\"To labour and to be content with that a man hath is a sweet life; but\nhe that findeth a treasure is above them both.\"--_Ecclesiasticus_.\n\n\nOf course they were bound for the Klondyke. Every creature in the\nNorth-west was bound for the Klondyke. Men from the South too, and men\nfrom the East, had left their ploughs and their pens, their factories,\npulpits, and easy-chairs, each man like a magnetic needle suddenly set\nfree and turning sharply to the North; all set pointing the self-same\nway since that July day in '97, when the _Excelsior_ sailed into San\nFrancisco harbour, bringing from the uttermost regions at the top of\nthe map close upon a million dollars in nuggets and in gold-dust.\n\nSome distance this side of the Arctic Circle, on the right bank of the\nYukon, a little detachment of that great army pressing northward, had\nbeen wrecked early in the month of September.\n\nThey had realised, on leaving the ocean-going ship that landed them at\nSt. Michael's Island (near the mouth of the great river), that they\ncould not hope to reach Dawson that year. But instead of \"getting cold\nfeet,\" as the phrase for discouragement ran, and turning back as\nthousands did, or putting in the winter on the coast, they determined,\nwith an eye to the spring rush, to cover as many as possible of the\nseventeen hundred miles of waterway before navigation closed.\n\nThey knew, in a vague way, that winter would come early, but they had\nnot counted on the big September storm that dashed their heavy-laden\nboats against the floe-ice, ultimately drove them ashore, and nearly\ncost the little party their lives. On that last day of the long\nstruggle up the stream, a stiff north-easter was cutting the middle\nreach of the mighty river, two miles wide here, into a choppy and\ndangerous sea.\n\nDay by day, five men in the two little boats, had kept serious eyes on\nthe shore. Then came the morning when, out of the monotonous cold and\nsnow-flurries, something new appeared, a narrow white rim forming on\nthe river margin--the first ice!\n\n\"Winter beginning to show his teeth,\" said one man, with an effort at\njocosity.\n\nDay by day, nearer came the menace; narrower and swifter still ran the\ndeep black water strip between the encroaching ice-lines. But the\nthought that each day's sailing or rowing meant many days nearer the\nKlondyke, seemed to inspire a superhuman energy. Day by day each man\nhad felt, and no man yet had said, \"We must camp to-night for eight\nmonths.\" They had looked landward, shivered, and held on their way.\n\nBut on this particular morning, when they took in sail, they realised\nit was to be that abomination of desolation on the shore or death. And\none or other speedily.\n\nNearer the white teeth gleamed, fiercer the gale, swifter the current,\nsweeping back the boats. The _Mary C._ was left behind, fighting for\nlife, while it seemed as if no human power could keep the _Tulare_ from\nbeing hurled against the western shore. Twice, in spite of all they\ncould do, she was driven within a few feet of what looked like certain\ndeath. With a huge effort, that last time, her little crew had just got\nher well in mid-stream, when a heavy roller breaking on the starboard\nside drenched the men and half filled the cockpit. Each rower, still\npulling for dear life with one hand, bailed the boat with the other;\nbut for all their promptness a certain amount of the water froze solid\nbefore they could get it out.\n\n\"Great luck, if we're going to take in water like this,\" said the\ncheerful Kentuckian, shipping his oar and knocking off the ice--\"great\nluck that all the stores are so well protected.\"\n\n\"Protected!\" snapped out an anxious, cast-iron-looking man at the\nrudder.\n\n\"Yes, protected. How's water to get through the ice-coat that's over\neverything?\"\n\nThe cast-iron steersman set his jaw grimly. They seemed to be\ncomparatively safe now, with half a mile of open water between them and\nthe western shore.\n\nBut they sat as before, stiff, alert, each man in his ice jacket that\ncracked and crunched as he bent to his oar. Now right, now left, again\nthey eyed the shore.\n\nWould it be--could it be there they would have to land? And if they\ndid...?\n\nLord, how it blew!\n\n\"Hard a-port!\" called out the steersman. There, just ahead, was a great\nwhite-capped \"roller\" coming--coming, the biggest wave they had\nencountered since leaving open sea.\n\nBut MacCann, the steersman, swung the boat straight into the crested\nroller, and the _Tulare_ took it gamely, \"bow on.\" All was going well\nwhen, just in the boiling middle of what they had thought was foaming\n\"white-cap,\" the boat struck something solid, shivered, and went\nshooting down, half under water; recovered, up again, and seemed to\npause in a second's doubt on the very top of the great wave. In that\nsecond that seemed an eternity one man's courage snapped.\n\nPotts threw down his oar and swore by----and by----he wouldn't pull\nanother----stroke on the----Yukon.\n\nWhile he was pouring out the words, the steersman sprang from the\ntiller, and seized Potts' oar just in time to save the boat from\ncapsizing. Then he and the big Kentuckian both turned on the distracted\nPotts.\n\n\"You infernal quitter!\" shouted the steersman, and choked with fury.\nBut even under the insult of that \"meanest word in the language,\" Potts\nsat glaring defiantly, with his half-frozen hands in his pockets.\n\n\"It ain't a river, anyhow, this ain't,\" he said. \"It's plain, simple\nHell and water.\"\n\nThe others had no time to realise that Potts was clean out of his\nsenses for the moment, and the Kentuckian, still pulling like mad,\nfaced the \"quitter\" with a determination born of terror.\n\n\"If you can't row, take the rudder! Damnation! Take that rudder! Quick,\n_or we'll kill you_!\" And he half rose up, never dropping his oar.\n\nBlindly, Potts obeyed.\n\nThe _Tulare_ was free now from the clinging mass at the bow, but they\nknew they had struck their first floe.\n\nFarther on they could see other white-caps bringing other ice masses\ndown. But there was no time for terrors ahead. The gale was steadily\ndriving them in shore again. Boat and oars alike were growing unwieldy\nwith their coating of ever-increasing ice, and human strength was no\nmatch for the storm that was sweeping down from the Pole.\n\nLord, how it blew!\n\n\"There's a cove!\" called out the Kentuckian. \"Throw her in!\" he shouted\nto Potts. Sullenly the new steersman obeyed.\n\nRolling in on a great surge, the boat suddenly turned in a boiling\neddy, and the first thing anybody knew was that the _Tulare_ was on her\nside and her crew in the water. Potts was hanging on to the gunwale and\ndamning the others for not helping him to save the boat.\n\nShe wasn't much of a boat when finally they got her into quiet water;\nbut the main thing was they had escaped with their lives and rescued a\ngood proportion of their winter provisions. All the while they were\ndoing this last, the Kentuckian kept turning to look anxiously for any\nsign of the others, in his heart bitterly blaming himself for having\nagreed to Potts' coming into the _Tulare_ that day in place of the\nKentuckian's own \"pardner.\" When they had piled the rescued provisions\nup on the bank, and just as they were covering the heap of bacon,\nflour, and bean-bags, boxes, tools, and utensils with a tarpaulin, up\nwent a shout, and the two missing men appeared tramping along the\nice-encrusted shore.\n\nWhere was the _Mary C._? Well, she was at the bottom of the Yukon, and\nher crew would like some supper.\n\nThey set up a tent, and went to bed that first night extremely well\npleased at being alive on any terms.\n\nBut people get over being glad about almost anything, unless misfortune\nagain puts an edge on the circumstance. The next day, not being in any\nimmediate danger, the boon of mere life seemed less satisfying.\n\nIn detachments they went up the river several miles, and down about as\nfar. They looked in vain for any sign of the _Mary C._. They prospected\nthe hills. From the heights behind the camp they got a pretty fair idea\nof the surrounding country. It was not reassuring.\n\n\"As to products, there seems to be plenty of undersized timber, plenty\nof snow and plenty of river, and, as far as I can see, just nothing\nelse.\"\n\n\"Well, there's oodles o' blueberries,\" said the Boy, his inky-looking\nmouth bearing witness to veracity; \"and there are black and red\ncurrants in the snow, and rose-apples--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" returned the other, \"it's a sort of garden of Eden!\"\n\nA little below here it was four miles from bank to bank of the main\nchannel, but at this point the river was only about two miles wide, and\nwhite already with floating masses of floe-ice going on a swift current\ndown towards the sea, four hundred miles away.\n\nThe right bank presented to the mighty river a low chain of hills,\nfringed at the base with a scattered growth of scrubby spruce, birch,\nwillow, and cotton-wood. Timber line was only two hundred feet above\nthe river brink; beyond that height, rocks and moss covered with\nnew-fallen snow.\n\nBut if their side seemed cheerless, what of the land on the left bank?\nA swamp stretching endlessly on either hand, and back from the icy\nflood as far as eye could see, broken only by sloughs and an occasional\nice-rimmed tarn.\n\n\"We've been travelling just eight weeks to arrive at this,\" said the\nKentuckian, looking at the desolate scene with a homesick eye.\n\n\"We're not only pretty far from home,\" grumbled another, \"we're still\nthirteen hundred miles away from the Klondyke.\"\n\nThese unenlivening calculations were catching.\n\n\"We're just about twenty-five hundred miles from the nearest railroad\nor telegraph, and, now that winter's down on us, exactly eight months\nfrom anywhere in the civilised world.\"\n\nThey had seen no sign of even savage life, no white trader, nothing to\nshow that any human foot had ever passed that way before.\n\nIn that stillness that was like the stillness of death, they went up\nthe hillside, with footsteps muffled in the clinging snow; and sixty\nfeet above the great river, in a part of the wood where the timber was\nleast unpromising, they marked out a site for their winter quarters.\n\nThen this queer little company--a Denver bank-clerk, an ex-schoolmaster\nfrom Nova Scotia, an Irish-American lawyer from San Francisco, a\nKentucky \"Colonel\" who had never smelt powder, and \"the Boy\" (who was\nno boy at all, but a man of twenty-two)--these five set to work felling\ntrees, clearing away the snow, and digging foundations for a couple of\nlog-cabins--one for the Trio, as they called themselves, the other for\nthe Colonel and the Boy.\n\nThese two had chummed from the hour they met on the steamer that\ncarried them through the Golden Gate of the Pacific till--well, till\nthe end of my story.\n\nThe Colonel was a big tanned fellow, nearly forty--eldest of the\nparty--whom the others used to guy discreetly, because you couldn't\nmention a place anywhere on the known globe, except the far north,\nwhich he had not personally inspected. But for this foible, as the\nuntravelled considered it, he was well liked and a little\nfeared--except by the Boy, who liked him \"first-rate,\" and feared him\nnot at all. They had promptly adopted each other before they discovered\nthat it was necessary to have one or more \"pardners.\" It seemed, from\nall accounts, to be true, that up there at the top of the world a man\nalone is a man lost, and ultimately the party was added to as\naforesaid.\n\nOnly two of them knew anything about roughing it. Jimmie O'Flynn of\n'Frisco, the Irish-American lawyer, had seen something of frontier\nlife, and fled it, and MacCann, the Nova Scotian schoolmaster, had\nspent a month in one of the Caribou camps, and on the strength of that,\nproudly accepted the nickname of \"the Miner.\"\n\nColonel George Warren and Morris Burnet, the Boy, had the best outfits;\nbut this fact was held to be more than counter-balanced by the value of\nthe schoolmaster's experience at Caribou, and by the extraordinary\nhandiness of Potts, the Denver clerk, who had helped to build the\nshelter on deck for the disabled sick on the voyage up. This young man\nwith the big mouth and lazy air had been in the office of a bank ever\nsince he left school, and yet, under pressure, he discovered a natural\nneat-handedness and a manual dexterity justly envied by some of his\nfellow-pioneers. His outfit was not more conspicuously meagre than\nO'Flynn's, yet the Irishman was held to be the moneyed man of his\nparty. Just why was never fully developed, but it was always said,\n\"O'Flynn represents capital\"; and O'Flynn, whether on that account, or\nfor a subtler and more efficient reason, always got the best of\neverything that was going without money and without price.\n\nOn board ship O'Flynn, with his ready tongue and his golden\nbackground--\"representing capital\"--was a leading spirit. Potts the\nhandy-man was a talker, too, and a good second. But, once in camp, Mac\nthe Miner was cock of the walk, in those first days, quoted \"Caribou,\"\nand ordered everybody about to everybody's satisfaction.\n\nIn a situation like this, the strongest lean on the man who has ever\nseen \"anything like it\" before. It was a comfort that anybody even\n_thought_ he knew what to do under such new conditions. So the others\nlooked on with admiration and a pleasant confidence, while Mac boldly\ncut a hole in the brand-new tent, and instructed Potts how to make a\nflange out of a tin plate, with which to protect the canvas from the\nheat of the stove-pipe. No more cooking now in the bitter open.\nEveryone admired Mac's foresight when he said:\n\n\"We must build rock fireplaces in our cabins, or we'll find our one\nlittle Yukon stove burnt out before the winter is over--before we have\na chance to use it out prospecting.\" And when Mac said they must pool\ntheir stores, the Colonel and the Boy agreed as readily as O'Flynn,\nwhose stores consisted of a little bacon, some navy beans, and a\ndemijohn of whisky. O'Flynn, however, urged that probably every man had\na little \"mite o' somethin'\" that he had brought specially for\nhimself--somethin' his friends had given him, for instance. There was\nPotts, now. They all knew how the future Mrs. Potts had brought a\nplum-cake down to the steamer, when she came to say good-bye, and made\nPotts promise he wouldn't unseal the packet till Christmas. It wouldn't\ndo to pool Potts' cake--never! There was the Colonel, the only man that\nhad a sack of coffee. He wouldn't listen when they had told him tea was\nthe stuff up here, and--well, perhaps other fellows didn't miss coffee\nas much as a Kentuckian, though he _had_ heard--Never mind; they\nwouldn't pool the coffee. The Boy had some preserved fruit that he\nseemed inclined to be a hog about--\n\n\"Oh, look here. I haven't touched it!\" \"Just what I'm sayin'. You're\nhoardin' that fruit.\"\n\nIt was known that Mac had a very dacint little medicine-chest. Of\ncourse, if any fellow was ill, Mac wasn't the man to refuse him a\nlittle cold pizen; but he must be allowed to keep his own medicine\nchest--and that little pot o' Dundee marmalade. As for O'Flynn, he\nwould look after the \"dimmi-john.\"\n\nBut Mac was dead against the whisky clause. Alcohol had been the curse\nof Caribou, and in _this_ camp spirits were to be for medicinal\npurposes only. Whereon a cloud descended on Mr. O'Flynn, and his health\nbegan to suffer; but the precious demi-john was put away \"in stock\"\nalong with the single bottles belonging to the others. Mac had taken an\ninventory, and no one in those early days dared touch anything without\nhis permission.\n\nThey had cut into the mountain-side for a level foundation, and were\nhard at it now hauling logs.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said the Boy, stopping a moment in his work, and looking at\nthe bleak prospect round him--\"I wonder if we're going to see anybody\nall winter.\"\n\n\"Oh, sure to,\" Mac thought; \"Indians, anyhow.\"\n\n\"Well, I begin to wish they'd mosy along,\" said Potts; and the sociable\nO'Flynn backed him up.\n\nIt was towards noon on the sixth day after landing (they had come to\nspeak of this now as a voluntary affair), when they were electrified by\nhearing strange voices; looked up from their work, and saw two white\nmen seated on a big cake of ice going down the river with the current.\nWhen they recovered sufficiently from their astonishment at the\nspectacle, they ran down the hillside, and proposed to help the\n\"castaways\" to land. Not a bit of it.\n\n\"_Land_ in that place! What you take us for? Not much! We're going to\nSt. Michael's.\"\n\nThey had a small boat drawn up by them on the ice, and one man was\ndressed in magnificent furs, a long sable overcoat and cap, and wearing\nquite the air of a North Pole Nabob.\n\n\"Got any grub?\" Mac called out.\n\n\"Yes; want some?\"\n\n\"Oh no; I thought you--\"\n\n\"You're not going to try to live through the winter _there?_\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Lord! you _are_ in a fix!\"\n\n\"That's we thought about you.\"\n\nBut the travellers on the ice-raft went by laughing and joking at the\nmen safe on shore with their tents and provisions. It made some of them\nvisibly uneasy. _Would_ they win through? Were they crazy to try it?\nThey had looked forward eagerly to the first encounter with their kind,\nbut this vision floating by on the treacherous ice, of men who rather\ndared the current and the crash of contending floes than land where\n_they_ were, seemed of evil augury. The little incident left a\ncuriously sinister impression on the camp.\n\nEven Mac was found agreeing with the others of his Trio that, since\nthey had a grand, tough time in front of them, it was advisable to get\nthrough the black months ahead with as little wear and tear as\npossible. In spite of the Trio's superior talents, they built a small\nramshackle cabin with a tumble-down fireplace, which served them so ill\nthat they ultimately spent all their waking hours in the more\ncomfortable quarters of the Colonel and the Boy. It had been agreed\nthat these two, with the help, or, at all events, the advice, of the\nothers, should build the bigger, better cabin, where the stores should\nbe kept and the whole party should mess--a cabin with a solid outside\nchimney of stone and an open fireplace, generous of proportion and\nancient of design, \"just like down South.\"\n\nThe weather was growing steadily colder; the ice was solid now many\nfeet out from each bank of the river. In the middle of the flood the\nclotted current still ran with floe-ice, but it was plain the river was\nsettling down for its long sleep.\n\nNot silently, not without stress and thunder. The handful of dwellers\non the shore would be waked in the night by the shock and crash of\ncolliding floes, the sound of the great winds rushing by, and--\"Hush!\nWhat's that?\" Tired men would start up out of sleep and sit straight to\nlisten. Down below, among the ice-packs, the noise as of an old-time\nbattle going on--tumult and crashing and a boom! boom! like\ncannonading.\n\nThen one morning they woke to find all still, the conflict over, the\nYukon frozen from bank to bank. No sound from that day on; no more\nrunning water for a good seven months.\n\nWinter had come.\n\nWhile the work went forward they often spoke of the only two people\nthey had thus far seen. Both Potts and O'Flynn had been heard to envy\nthem.\n\nMac had happened to say that he believed the fellow in furs was an\nEnglishman--a Canadian, at the very least. The Americans chaffed him,\nand said, \"That accounts for it,\" in a tone not intended to flatter.\nMac hadn't thought of it before, but he was prepared to swear now that\nif an Englishman--they were the hardiest pioneers on earth--or a\nCanadian was in favour of lighting out, \"it must be for some good\nreason.\"\n\n\"Oh yes; we all know that reason.\"\n\nThe Americans laughed, and Mac, growing hot, was goaded into vaunting\nthe Britisher and running down the Yankee.\n\n\"Yankee!\" echoed the Kentuckian. \"And up in Nova Scotia they let this\nman teach school! Doesn't know the difference yet between the little\ncorner they call New England and all the rest of America.\"\n\n\"All the rest of America!\" shouted Mac. \"The cheeky way you people of\nthe States have of gobbling the Continent (in _talk_), just as though\nthe British part of it wasn't the bigger half!\"\n\n\"Yes; but when you think _which_ half, you ought to be obliged to any\nfellow for forgetting it.\" And then they referred to effete monarchical\ninstitutions, and by the time they reached the question of the kind of\nking the Prince of Wales would make, Mac was hardly a safe man to argue\nwith.\n\nThere was one bond between him and the Kentucky Colonel: they were both\nreligious men; and although Mac was blue Presbyterian and an inveterate\ntheologian, somehow, out here in the wilderness, it was more possible\nto forgive a man for illusions about the Apostolic Succession and\nmistaken views upon Church government. The Colonel, at all events, was\nnot so lax but what he was ready to back up the Calvinist in an\nendeavour to keep the Sabbath (with a careful compromise between church\nand chapel) and help him to conduct a Saturday-night Bible-class.\n\nBut if the Boy attended the Bible-class with fervour and aired his\nheresies with uncommon gusto, if he took with equal geniality Colonel\nWarren's staid remonstrance and Mac's fiery objurgation, Sunday morning\ninvariably found him more \"agnostic\" than ever, stoutly declining to\nrecognise the necessity for \"service.\" For this was an occasion when\nyou couldn't argue or floor anybody, or hope to make Mac \"hoppin' mad,\"\nor have the smallest kind of a shindy. The Colonel read the lessons,\nMac prayed, and they all sang, particularly O'Flynn. Now, the Boy\ncouldn't sing a note, so there was no fair division of entertainment,\nwherefore he would go off into the woods with his gun for company, and\nthe Catholic O'Flynn, and even Potts, were in better odour than he\n\"down in camp\" on Sundays. So far you may travel, and yet not escape\nthe tyranny of the \"outworn creeds.\"\n\nThe Boy came back a full hour before service on the second Sunday with\na couple of grouse and a beaming countenance. Mac, who was cook that\nweek, was the only man left in the tent. He looked agreeably surprised\nat the apparition.\n\n\"Hello!\" says he more pleasantly than his Sunday gloom usually\npermitted. \"Back in time for service?\"\n\n\"I've found a native,\" says the Boy, speaking as proudly as any\nColumbus. \"He's hurt his foot, and he's only got one eye, but he's\nsplendid. Told me no end of things. He's coming here as fast as his\nfoot will let him--he and three other Indians--Esquimaux, I mean. They\nhaven't had anything to eat but berries and roots for seven days.\"\n\nThe Boy was feverishly overhauling the provisions behind the stove.\n\n\"Look here,\" says Mac, \"hold on there. I don't know that we've come all\nthis way to feed a lot o' dirty savages.\"\n\n\"But they're starving.\" Then, seeing that that fact did not produce the\ndesired impression: \"My savage is an awfully good fellow. He--he's a\nconverted savage, seems to be quite a Christian.\" Then, hastily\nfollowing up his advantage: \"He's been taught English by the Jesuits at\nthe mission forty miles above us, on the river. He can give us a whole\nheap o' tips.\"\n\nMac was slowly bringing out a small panful of cold boiled beans.\n\n\"There are four of them,\" said the Boy--\"big fellows, almost as big as\nour Colonel, and _awful_ hungry.\"\n\nMac looked at the handful of beans and then at the small sheet-iron\nstove.\n\n\"There are more cooking,\" says he not over-cordially.\n\n\"The one that talks good English is the son of the chief. You can see\nhe's different from the others. Knows a frightful lot. He's taught me\nsome of his language already. The men with him said 'Kaiomi' to\neverything I asked, and that means 'No savvy.' Says he'll teach\nme--he'll teach all of us--how to snow-shoe.\"\n\n\"We know how to snow-shoe.\"\n\n\"Oh, I mean on those long narrow snow-shoes that make you go so fast\nyou always trip up! He'll show us how to steer with a pole, and how to\nmake fish-traps and--and everything.\"\n\nMac began measuring out some tea.\n\n\"He's got a team of Esquimaux dogs--calls 'em Mahlemeuts, and he's got\na birch-bark canoe, and a skin kyak from the coast.\" Then with an\ninspiration: \"His people are the sort of Royal Family down there,\"\nadded the Boy, thinking to appeal to the Britisher's monarchical\ninstincts.\n\nMac had meditatively laid his hand on a side of bacon, the Boy's eyes\nfollowing.\n\n\"He's asked us--_all_ of us, and we're five--up to visit him at Pymeut,\nthe first village above us here.\" Mac took up a knife to cut the bacon.\n\"And--good gracious! why, I forgot the grouse; they can have the\ngrouse!\"\n\n\"No, they can't,\" said Mac firmly; \"they're lucky to get bacon.\"\n\nThe Boy's face darkened ominously. When he looked like that the elder\nmen found it was \"healthiest to give him his head.\" But the young face\ncleared as quickly as it had clouded. After all, the point wasn't worth\nfighting for, since grouse would take time to cook, and--here were the\nnatives coming painfully along the shore.\n\nThe Boy ran out and shouted and waved his cap. The other men of the\ncamp, who had gone in the opposite direction, across the river ice to\nlook at an air-hole, came hurrying back and reached camp about the same\ntime as the visitors.\n\n\"Thought you said they were big fellows!\" commented Mac, who had come\nto the door for a glimpse of the Indians as they toiled up the <DW72>.\n\n\"Well, so they are!\"\n\n\"Why, the Colonel would make two of any one of them.\"\n\n\"The Colonel! Oh well, you can't expect anybody else to be quite as big\nas that. I was in a hurry, but I suppose what I meant was, they could\neat as much as the Colonel.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\"\n\n\"Well, just look how broad they are. It doesn't matter to your stomach\nwhether you're big up and down, or big to and fro.\"\n\n\"It's their furs make 'em look like that. They're the most awful little\nrunts I ever saw!\"\n\n\"Well, I reckon _you'd_ think they were big, too--big as Nova\nScotia--if _you'd_ found 'em--come on 'em suddenly like that in the\nwoods--\"\n\n\"Which is the...?\"\n\n\"Oh, the son of the chief is in the middle, the one who is taking off\nhis civilised fur-coat. He says his father's got a heap of pelts (you\ncould get things for your collection, Mac), and he's got two\nreindeer-skin shirts with hoods--'parkis,' you know, like the others\nare wearing--\"\n\nThey were quite near now.\n\n\"How do,\" said the foremost native affably.\n\n\"How do.\" The Boy came forward and shook hands as though he hadn't seen\nhim for a month. \"This,\" says he, turning first to Mac and then to the\nother white men, \"this is Prince Nicholas of Pymeut. Walk right in, all\nof you, and have something to eat.\"\n\nThe visitors sat on the ground round the stove, as close as they could\nget without scorching, and the atmosphere was quickly heavy with their\npresence. When they slipped back their hoods it was seen that two of\nthe men wore the \"tartar tonsure,\" after the fashion of the coast.\n\n\"Where do you come from?\" inquired the Colonel of the man nearest him,\nwho simply blinked and was dumb.\n\n\"This is the one that talks English,\" said the Boy, indicating Nicholas,\n\"and he lives at Pymeut, and he's been converted.\"\n\n\"How far is Pymeut?\"\n\n\"We sleep Pymeut to-night,\" says Nicholas.\n\n\"Which way?\"\n\nThe native jerked his head up the river.\n\n\"Many people there?\"\n\nHe nodded.\n\n\"White men, too?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"How far to the nearest white men?\"\n\nNicholas's mind wandered from the white man's catechism and fixed\nitself on his race's immemorial problem: how far it was to the nearest\nthing to eat.\n\n\"I thought you said he could speak English.\"\n\n\"So he can, first rate. He and I had a great pow-wow, didn't we,\nNicholas?\"\n\nNicholas smiled absently, and fixed his one eye on the bacon that Mac\nwas cutting on the deal box into such delicate slices.\n\n\"He'll talk all right,\" said the Boy, \"when he's had some breakfast.\"\n\nMac had finished the cutting, and now put the frying-pan on an open\nhole in the little stove.\n\n\"Cook him?\" inquired Nicholas.\n\n\"Yes. Don't you cook him?\"\n\n\"Take heap time, cook him.\"\n\n\"You couldn't eat it raw!\"\n\nNicholas nodded emphatically.\n\nMac said \"No,\" but the Boy was curious to see if they would really eat\nit uncooked.\n\n\"Let them have _some_ of it raw while the rest is frying\"; and he\nbeckoned the visitors to the deal box. They made a dart forward,\ngathered up the fat bacon several slices at a time, and pushed it into\ntheir mouths.\n\n\"Ugh!\" said the Colonel under his breath.\n\nMac quickly swept what was left into the frying-pan, and began to cut a\nfresh lot.\n\nThe Boy divided the cold beans, got out biscuits, and poured the tea,\nwhile silence and a strong smell of ancient fish and rancid seal\npervaded the little tent.\n\nO'Flynn put a question or two, but Nicholas had gone stone-deaf. There\nwas no doubt about it, they had been starving.\n\nAfter a good feed they sat stolidly by the fire, with no sign of\nconsciousness, save the blinking of beady eyes, till the Colonel\nsuggested a smoke. Then they all grinned broadly, and nodded with great\nvigour. Even those who had no other English understood \"tobacco.\"\n\nWhen he had puffed awhile, Nicholas took his pipe out of his mouth,\nand, looking at the Boy, said:\n\n\"You no savvy catch fish in winter?\"\n\n\"Through the ice? No. How you do it?\"\n\n\"Make hole--put down trap--heap fish all winter.\"\n\n\"You get enough to live on?\" asked the Colonel.\n\n\"They must have dried fish, too, left over from the summer,\" said Mac.\n\nNicholas agreed. \"And berries and flour. When snow begin get soft,\nPymeuts all go off--\" He motioned with his big head towards the hills.\n\n\"What do you get there?\" Mac was becoming interested.\n\n\"Caribou, moose--\"\n\n\"Any furs?\"\n\n\"Yes; trap ermun, marten--\"\n\n\"Lynx, too, I suppose, and fox?\"\n\nNicholas nodded. \"All kinds. Wolf--muskrat, otter--wolverine--all\nkinds.\"\n\n\"You got some skins now?\" asked the Nova Scotian.\n\n\"Y--yes. More when snow get soft. You come Pymeut--me show.\"\n\n\"Where have ye been just now?\" asked O'Flynn.\n\n\"St. Michael.\"\n\n\"How long since ye left there?\"\n\n\"Twelve sleeps.\"\n\n\"He means thirteen days.\"\n\nNicholas nodded.\n\n\"They couldn't possibly walk that far in--\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" says the Boy; \"they don't follow the windings of the river,\nthey cut across the portage, you know.\"\n\n\"Snow come--no trail--big mountains--all get lost.\"\n\n\"What did you go to St. Michael's for?\"\n\n\"Oh, me pilot. Me go all over. Me leave N. A. T. and T. boat St.\nMichael's last trip.\"\n\n\"Then you're in the employ of the great North American Trading and\nTransportation Company?\"\n\nNicholas gave that funny little duck of the head that meant yes.\n\n\"That's how you learnt English,\" says the Colonel.\n\n\"No; me learn English at Holy Cross. Me been baptize.\"\n\n\"At that Jesuit mission up yonder?\"\n\n\"Forty mile.\"\n\n\"Well,\" says Potts, \"I guess you've had enough walking for one winter.\"\n\nNicholas seemed not to follow this observation. The Boy interpreted:\n\n\"You heap tired, eh? You no go any more long walk till ice go out, eh?\"\n\nNicholas grinned.\n\n\"Me go Ikogimeut--all Pymeut go.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"Big feast.\"\n\n\"Oh, the Russian mission there gives a feast?\"\n\n\"No. Big Innuit feast.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Pretty quick. Every year big feast down to Ikogimeut when Yukon ice\nget hard, so man go safe with dog-team.\"\n\n\"Do many people go?\"\n\n\"All Innuit go, plenty Ingalik go.\"\n\n\"How far do they come?\"\n\n\"All over; come from Koserefsky, come from Anvik--sometime Nulato.\"\n\n\"Why, Nulato's an awful distance from Ikogimeut.\"\n\n\"Three hundred and twenty miles,\" said the pilot, proud of his general\ninformation, and quite ready, since he had got a pipe between his\nteeth, to be friendly and communicative.\n\n\"What do you do at Ikogimeut when you have these--\" \"Big fire--big\nfeed--tell heap stories--big dance. Oh, heap big time!\"\n\n\"Once every year, eh, down at Ikogimeut?\"\n\n\"Three times ev' year. Ev' village, and\"--he lowered his voice, not\nwith any hit of reverence or awe, but with an air of making a sly and\ncheerful confidence--\"and when man die.\"\n\n\"You make a feast and have a dance when a friend dies?\"\n\n\"If no priests. Priests no like. Priests say, 'Man no dead; man gone\nup.'\" Nicholas pondered the strange saying, and slowly shook his head.\n\n\"In that the priests are right,\" said Mac grudgingly.\n\nIt was anything but politic, but for the life of him the Boy couldn't\nhelp chipping in:\n\n\"You think when man dead he stay dead, eh, and you might as well make a\nfeast?\"\n\nNicholas gave his quick nod. \"We got heap muskeetah, we cold, we\nhungry. We here heap long time. Dead man, he done. Why no big feast? Oh\nyes, heap big feast.\"\n\nThe Boy was enraptured. He would gladly have encouraged these pagan\ndeliverances on the part of the converted Prince, but the Colonel was\nscandalised, and Mac, although in his heart of hearts not ill-satisfied\nat the evidence of the skin-deep Christianity of a man delivered over\nto the corrupt teaching of the Jesuits, found in this last fact all the\nstronger reason for the instant organisation of a good Protestant\nprayer-meeting. Nicholas of Pymeut must not be allowed to think it was\nonly Jesuits who\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}
{"id": "pg19_006", "title": "Ancestors by Gertrude Atherton", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31858", "tokens": 8192, "chars": 34531, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nPART I\n\n1904\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nMiss Thangue, who had never seen her friend's hand tremble among the\nteacups before, felt an edge on her mental appetite, stimulating after\ntwo monotonous years abroad. It was several minutes, however, before she\nmade any effort to relieve her curiosity, for of all her patron-friends\nVictoria Gwynne required the most delicate touch. Flora had learned to\nbe audacious without taking a liberty, which, indeed, was one secret of\nher success; but although she prided herself upon her reading of this\nenigma, whom even the ancestral dames of Capheaton looked down upon\ninspectively, she was never quite sure of her ground. She particularly\nwished to avoid mistakes upon the renewal of an intimacy kept alive by a\nfitful correspondence during her sojourn on the Continent. Quite apart\nfrom self-interest, she liked no one as well, and her curiosity was\ntempered by a warm sympathy and a genuine interest. It was this capacity\nfor friendship, and her unlimited good-nature, that had saved her,\npenniless as she was, from the ignominious footing of the social\nparasite. The daughter of a clergyman in a Yorkshire village, and the\nplaymate in childhood of the little girls of the castle near by, she had\nrealized early in life that although pretty and well-bred, she was not\nyet sufficiently dowered by either nature or fortune to hope for a\nbrilliant marriage; and she detested poverty. Upon her father's death\nshe must earn her bread, and, reasoning that self-support was merely the\nmarketing of one's essential commodity, and as her plump and indolent\nbody was disinclined to privations of any sort, she elected the role of\nuseful friend to fashionable and luxurious women. It was not an exalted\nniche to fill in life, but at least she had learned to fill it to\nperfection, and her ambitions were modest. Moreover, a certain integrity\nof character and girlish enthusiasm had saved her from the more\ncorrosive properties of her anomalous position, and she was not only\nclever enough to be frankly useful without servility, but she had become\nso indispensable to certain of her friends, that although still blooming\nin her early forties, she would no more have deserted them for a mere\nhusband than she would have renounced her comfortable and varied\nexistence for the no less varied uncertainties of matrimony.\n\nIt was not often that a kindly fate had overlooked her for so long a\nperiod as two years, and when she had accepted the invitation of one of\nthe old castle playmates to visit her in Florence, it had been with a\nlively anticipation that made dismay the more poignant in the face of\nhypochondria. Nevertheless, realizing her debt to this first of her\npatrons, and with much of her old affection revived, she wandered from\none capital and specialist to the next, until death gave her liberty.\nShe was not unrewarded, but the legacy inspired her with no desire for\nan establishment beyond her room at the Club in Dover Street, the\ncompanionship of friends not too exacting, the agreeable sense of\nindispensableness, and a certain splendor of environment which gave a\nwarmth and color to life; and which she could not have commanded had she\nset up in middle years as an independent spinster of limited income. She\nhad received many impatient letters while abroad, to which she had\nreplied with fluent affection and picturesque gossip, never losing touch\nfor a moment. When release came she had hastened home to book herself\nfor the house-parties, and with Victoria Gwynne, although one of the\nleast opulent of her friends, first on the list. She had had several\ncorrespondents as ardent as herself, and there was little gossip of the\nmore intimate sort that had not reached her sooner or later, but she\nfound subtle changes in Victoria for which she could not as yet account.\nShe had now been at Capheaton and alone with her friend for three days,\nbut there had been a stress of duties for both, and the hostess had\nnever been more silent. To-day, as she seemed even less inclined to\nconversation, although manifestly nervous, Miss Thangue merely drank her\ntea with an air of being too comfortable and happy in England and\nCapheaton for intellectual effort, and patiently waited for a cue or an\ninspiration. But although she too kept silence, memory and imagination\nheld rendezvous in her circumspect brain, and she stole more than one\nfurtive glance at her companion.\n\nLady Victoria Gwynne, one of the tallest women of her time and still one\nof the handsomest, had been extolled all her life for that fusion of the\nromantic and the aristocratic ideals that so rarely find each other in\nthe same shell; and loved by a few. Her round slender figure, supple\nwith exercise and ignorant of disease, her black hair and eyes, the\nutter absence of color in her smooth Orientally white skin, the mouth,\nfull at the middle and curving sharply upward at the corners, and the\nirregular yet delicate nose that seemed presented as an afterthought to\nsave that brilliant and subtle face from classic severity, made her\nlook--for the most part--as if fashioned for the picture-gallery or the\npoem, rather than for the commonplaces of life. Always one of those\nEnglishwomen that let their energy be felt rather than expressed, for\nshe made no effort in conversation whatever, her once mobile face had of\nlate years, without aging, composed itself into a sort of illuminated\nmask. As far as possible removed from that other ideal, the British\nMatron, and still suggesting an untamed something in the complex centres\nof her character, she yet looked so aloof, so monumental, that she had\nrecently been painted by a great artist for a world exhibition, as an\nillustration of what centuries of breeding and selection had done for\nthe noblewomen of England.\n\nSome years before, a subtle Frenchman had expressed her in such a\nfashion that while many vowed he had given to the world an epitome of\nromantic youth, others remarked cynically that his handsome subject\nlooked as if about to seat herself on the corner of the table and smoke\na cigarette. The American artist, although habitually cruel to his\npatrons, had, after triumphantly transferring the type to the canvas,\ndrawn to the surface only so much of the soul of the woman as all that\nran might admire. If there was a hint of bitterness in the lower part of\nthe face, from the eyes there looked an indomitable courage and much\nsweetness. Only in the carnage of the head, the tilt of the chin, was\nthe insolence expressed that had made her many enemies. Some of the\nwildest stories of the past thirty years had been current about her, and\nrejected or believed according to the mental habit or personal bias of\nthose that tinker with reputations. The late Queen, it was well known,\nhad detested her, and made no secret of her resentment that through the\nshort-sighted loyalty of one of the first members of her Household, the\ndangerous creature had been named after her. But whatever her secrets,\nopen scandal Lady Victoria had avoided: imperturbably, without even an\nadditional shade of insolence, never apologizing nor explaining;\nwherein, no doubt, lay one secret of her strength. And then her\neminently respectable husband, Arthur Gwynne, second son of the Marquess\nof Strathland and Zeal, had always fondly alluded to her as \"The\nMissus,\" and lauded her as a repository of all the unfashionable\nvirtues. To-day, presiding at the tea-table in her son's country-house,\nan eager light in her eyes, she looked like neither of her portraits:\nmore nearly approached, perhaps, poor Arthur Gwynne's ideal of her; not\nin the least the frozen stoic of the past three days. When she finally\nmade an uncontrollable movement that half-overturned the cream-jug,\nFlora Thangue's curiosity overcame her, and she murmured, tentatively:\n\n\"If I had ever seen you nervous before, Vicky--\"\n\n\"I am not nervous, but allowances are to be made for maternal anxiety.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Miss Thangue drew a deep breath. She continued, vaguely, \"Oh, the\nmaternal role--\"\n\n\"Have I ever failed as a mother?\" asked Lady Victoria, dispassionately.\n\n\"No, but you are so many other things, too. Somehow, when I am away from\nyou I see you in almost every other capacity.\"\n\n\"Jack is thirty and I am forty-nine.\"\n\n\"_You_ look thirty,\" replied Flora, with equal candor.\n\n\"I am thankful that my age is in Lodge; I can never be tempted to enroll\nmyself with the millions that were married when just sixteen.\"\n\n\"Oh, you never could make a fool of yourself,\" murmured her friend.\nThen, as Victoria showed signs of relapsing into silence, she plunged in\nrecklessly; \"Jack is bound to be elected. When has he ever failed to get\nwhat he wanted? But you, Vicky dear--is there anything wrong? You had a\nbulky letter from California the day I arrived. I do hope that tiresome\nproperty is not giving you trouble. What a pity it is such a long way\noff.\"\n\n\"The San Francisco lease runs out shortly. Half of that, and the\nsouthern ranch, are my only independent sources of income. The northern\nranch belongs to Jack. All three are getting less and less easy to let\nin their entirety, my agents write me, and I feel half a pauper\nalready.\"\n\n\"This is not so bad,\" murmured Flora.\n\n\"Strathland would bundle me out in ten minutes if anything happened to\nJack.\"\n\n\"It would be a pity; it suits you.\" She was not referring to the hall,\nwhich was somewhat too light and small for the heroic mould of its\nchatelaine, but to the noble proportions of the old house itself, and\nthe treasures that had accumulated since the first foundations were laid\nin the reign of Henry VI. There were rooms hung with ugly brocades and\nvelvets never duplicated, state bed-chambers and boudoirs sacred to the\nmemory of personages whose dust lay half-forgotten in their marbles; but\nabove all, Capheaton was famous for its pictures. Not only was there an\nunusually large number of portraits by masters scattered about the\ntwenty rooms that lay behind and on either side of the hall, but many\nhundreds of those portraits and landscapes from the brushes of artists\nfashionable in their day, unknown in the annals of art, but seeming to\nemit a faint scent of lavender and rose leaves from the walls of\nEngland's old manor-houses and castles. In the dining-room there was a\nfull-length portrait of Mary Tudor, black but for the yellow face and\nhands and ruff; and another, the scarlet coat and robust complexion\nstill fresh, of the fourth George, handsome, gay, devil-may-care; both\npainted to commemorate visits to Capheaton, historically hospitable in\nthe past. But Lord Strathland, besides having been presented with six\ndaughters and an heir as extravagant as tradition demanded, was poor as\npeers go, and had more than once succumbed to the titillating delights\nof speculation, less cheering in the retrospect. Having a still larger\nestate to keep up, he had been glad to lend Capheaton to his second son,\nwho, being an excellent manager and assisted by his wife's income, had\nlived very comfortably upon its yield. Upon his death Elton Gwynne had\nassumed possession as a matter of course; and a handsome allowance from\nhis doting grandfather supplementing his inheritance, the mind of the\nhaughty and promising young gentleman was free of sordid anxieties.\n\nLady Victoria's satirical gaze swept the simpering portraits of her\nson's great-aunts and grandmothers, with which the hall was\npromiscuously hung.\n\n\"Of course I am as English as if the strain had never been crossed, if\nyou mean that. But I'd rather like to get away for a while. I really\nought to visit my California estates, and I have always wanted to see\nthat part of America. I started for it once, but never even reached the\nwestern boundaries of New York. One of us should spend a year there, at\nleast; and of course it is out of the question for Jack to leave England\nagain.\"\n\n\"You would not spend six months out of Curzon Street. You are the most\nconfirmed Londoner I know.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\"\n\nMiss Thangue replied, impulsively, \"I have often wondered if you\nnumbered satiety among your complexities!\"\n\nThis was as far as she had ever adventured into the mysterious\nbackwaters of Victoria's soul, and she dropped her eyelids lest a\ndeprecating glance meet the contempt it deserved; both with a due regard\nfor the limit imposed by good taste, despised the faint heart.\n\n\"I hate the sight of London!\" Her tone had changed so suddenly that\nFlora winked. \"If it were not for Jack I would leave--get out. I am sick\nof the whole game.\"\n\n\"Oh, be on your guard,\" cried her friend, sharply. \"That sort of thing\nmeans the end of youth.\"\n\n\"Youth after fifty depends upon your doctor, your masseuse, and your\ndressmaker. I do not say that my present state of mind is sown with\nevergreens and immortelles, but the fact remains that for the present I\nhave come to the end of myself and am interested in no one on earth but\nJack.\"\n\nMiss Thangue stared into her teacup, recalling the gossip of a year ago,\nalthough she had given it little heed at the time: Victoria had been\ntransiently interested so often! But all the world knew that when Arthur\nGwynne was killed Sir Cadge Vanneck had been off his head about\nVictoria; and that when obvious restrictions vanished into the family\nvault he had left abruptly for Rhodesia to develop his mines, and had\nnot found time to return since. Sir Cadge was about the same age as the\nfamous beauty, and rose quite two inches above her lofty head. People\nhad grown accustomed to the fine appearance they made when\ntogether--\"Artie\" was ruddy and stout--and although Victoria reinforced\nher enemies, for Vanneck was one of the most agreeable and accomplished\nmen in London, the artistic sense of that lenient world was tickled at\ntheir congruities and took their future mating for granted; Arthur\nGwynne was sure to meet his death on the hunting-field, for he was far\ntoo heavy for a horse and rode vilely. When he fulfilled his destiny and\nVanneck fled, the world was as much annoyed as amused. But they were\namused, and Flora Thangue knew that this gall must have bitten deeper\nthan the loss of Vanneck, who may or may not have made an impression on\nthis woman too proud and too spoiled to accept homage in public\notherwise than passively, whatever may have been the unwritten tale of\nher secret hours. The excuses hazarded by Vanneck's friends were neither\nhumorous nor sentimental, but no one denied that they were eminently\nsensible: his first wife had died childless, his estates were large, his\ntitle was one of the oldest in England. But although no one pitied\nVictoria Gwynne, many were annoyed at having their mental attitude\ndisarranged, and this no doubt had kept the gossip alive and been a\nconstant source of irritation to a woman whose sense of humor was as\ndeep as her pride.\n\nFlora replied at random. \"Jack couldn't very well get on without you.\"\n\nHis mother's eyes flashed. \"I flatter myself he could not--at present.\nIf Julia Kaye would only marry him!\"\n\n\"She won't,\" cried Flora, relieved at the change of tone. \"And\nwhy do you wish it? She is two years older, of quite dreadful\norigin--and--well--I don't like her; perhaps my opinion is a little\nbiased.\"\n\n\"She is immensely rich, one of the ablest political women in London, and\nJack is desperately in love with her.\"\n\n\"I cannot picture Jack in extremities about any one, although I don't\ndeny that he has his sentimental seizures. He even made love to me when\nhe was cutting his teeth. But he doesn't need a lot of money, you rank\nhigher than she among the political women, and--well, I believe her to\nbe bad-tempered, and more selfish than any woman I have ever known.\"\n\n\"He loves her. He wants her. He would dominate any woman he married. He\nis such a dear that no woman who lived with him could help loving him.\nMoreover, she is inordinately ambitious, and Jack's career is the most\npromising in England.\"\n\n\"Jack is far too good for her, and I am glad that he will not get her. I\nhappen to know that she has made up her mind to marry Lord Brathland.\"\n\n\"Bratty is a donkey.\"\n\n\"She would be the last to deny it, but he is certain to be a duke if he\nlives, and she would marry a man that had to be led round with a string\nfor the sake of being called 'your grace' by the servants. She'll never\nbe anything but a third-rate duchess, and people that tolerate her now\nwill snub her the moment she gives herself airs. But I suppose she\nthinks a duchess is a duchess.\"\n\n\"Money goes pretty far with us,\" said Lady Victoria, dryly.\n\n\"Doesn't it? Nevertheless--you know it as well as I do--among the people\nthat really count other things go further, and duchesses have been put\nin their place before this--you have done it yourself. Julia Kaye has\nkept her head so far because she has been hunting for strawberry leaves,\nand there is no denying she's clever; but once she is in the upper\nair--well, I have seen her as rude as she dares be, and if she became a\nduchess she would cultivate rudeness as part of the role.\"\n\n\"We can be rude enough.\"\n\n\"Yes, and know how to be. A parvenu never does.\"\n\n\"She is astonishingly clever.\"\n\n\"Duchesses are born--even the American ones. Julia Kaye has never\nsucceeded in being quite natural; she has always the effect of\nrehearsing the part of the great lady for amateur theatricals. Poor\nGussy Kaye might have coached her better. The moment she mounts she'll\nbecome wholly artificial, she'll patronize, she'll give herself no end\nof ridiculous airs; she won't move without sending a paragraph to the\n_Morning Post_. The back of her head will be quite in line with her\ncharming little bust, and I for one shall walk round and laugh in her\nface. She is the only person that could inspire me to such a vicious\nspeech, but I am human, and as she so ingenuously snubs me as a person\nof no consequence, my undazzled eyes see her as she is.\"\n\nLady Victoria, instead of responding with the faint, absent, somewhat\nirritating smile which she commonly vouchsafed those that sought to\namuse her, lit another cigarette and leaned back among the cushions of\nthe sofa behind the tea-table. She drew her eyelids together, a rare\nsign of perturbation. The only stigma of time on her face was a certain\nsharpness of outline and leanness of throat. But the throat was always\ncovered, and her wardrobe reflected the most fleeting of the fashions,\nassuring her position as a contemporary, if driving her dressmaker to\nthe verge of bankruptcy. When her bright, black, often laughing eyes\nwere in play she passed with the casual public, and abroad, as a woman\nof thirty, but with her lids down the sharpness of the lower part of the\nface arrested the lover of detail.\n\n\"Are you sure of that?\" she asked, in a moment.\n\n\"Quite.\"\n\n\"I am sorry. It will be a great blow to Jack. I hoped she would come\nround in time.\"\n\n\"She will marry Brathland. I saw Cecilia Spence in town. She was at\nMaundrell Abbey with them both last week. You may expect the\nannouncement any day--she'll write it herself for the _Morning Post_.\nHow on earth can Jack find time to think about women with the immense\namount of work he gets through?--and his really immodest ambitions!\nBy-the-way--isn't this polling-day? I wonder if he has won his seat? But\nas I said just now I do not associate Jack with defeat. His trifling\nset-backs have merely served to throw his manifest destiny into higher\nrelief.\"\n\n\"The telegram should have come an hour ago. I have few doubts--and yet\nhe has so many enemies. I wonder if we shall be born into a world, after\nwe have been sufficiently chastened here, where one can get one's head\nabove the multitude without rousing some of the most hideous qualities\nin human nature? It is a great responsibility! But there has been no\nsuch speaker, nor fighter, for a quarter of a century.\" Her eyes glowed\nagain. \"And heaven knows I have worked for him.\"\n\n\"What a pity he is not a Tory! He could have a dozen boroughs for the\nasking. I wish he were. The whole Liberal party makes me sick. And it is\nagainst every tradition of his family--\"\n\n\"As if that mattered. Besides, he is a born fighter. He'd hate anything\nhe could have for the asking. And he's far too modern, too progressive,\nfor the Conservative party--even if there were anything but blue-mould\nleft in it.\"\n\n\"Well, you know I am not original, and my poor old dad brought us up on\nthe soundest Tory principles; he never would even compromise on the word\nConservative. But considering that Jack is as Liberal as if the taint\nwere in the marrow of his bones, what a blessing that poor Artie did not\nhappen to be the oldest son. Cecilia says they were all talking of it at\nMaundrell Abbey, where of course it is a peculiarly interesting topic.\nThat ornamental and conscientious peer, Lord Barnstable, has never\nceased to regret his father's death, for reasons far removed from\nsentimental. He told Cecilia that Lord Strathland almost confessed to\nhim that he would give his right eye to hand over his old shoes to Jack,\nnot only because he detests Zeal, but because it would take the backbone\nout of his Liberalism--\"\n\n\"And ruin _his_ career. Thank heaven Zeal is engaged at last. They will\nmarry in the spring, and then the only cloud on Jack's horizon will\nvanish.\"\n\n\"What if there were no children?\"\n\n\"There are so much more often than not--that is the least of my worries.\nHe had five girls by his first wife; there is no reason why this\nsplendid cow I have picked out should not produce a dozen boys. I never\nworked so hard over one of Jack's elections--not only to overcome Zeal's\nmisogyny, which he calls scruples, but I had to fight Strathland every\ninch of the way. When I think of Jack's desperation if he were\npitchforked up into the Peers--you do not know him as I do.\"\n\n\"Well, he is safe for a time, I fancy. There has been consumption in the\nfamily before, and always the slowest sort--\"\n\nA footman entered with a yellow envelope on a tray.\n\nLady Victoria opened it without haste or change of color.\n\n\"Jack is returned,\" she said.\n\n\"How jolly,\" replied the other, with equal indifference.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\n\"You look tired--I will take you up to your room. Vicky has so many on\nher hands.\"\n\nThe American rose slowly, but with a flash of gratitude in her eyes.\n\n\"I am tired, and I don't know a soul here. I almost wish Lady Victoria\nhad not asked me down, although I have wanted all my life to visit one\nof the ancestral homes of England.\"\n\n\"Oh, you'll get over that, and used to us,\" said Miss Thangue, smiling.\n\"Your staircase is behind this door, and we can slip out without\nattracting attention. They are all gabbling over Jack's election.\"\n\nShe opened a door in a corner of the hall where the newly arrived guests\nwere gathered about Lady Victoria's tea-table, and led the way up a wide\ndark and slippery stair. After the first landing the light was stronger,\nand the walls were, to an inch, covered with portraits and landscapes,\nthe effect almost as careless as if the big open space were a\nlumber-room.\n\n\"Are they _all_ old masters?\" asked Miss Isabel Otis, politely, her eyes\nroving over the dark canvases.\n\n\"Oh no; the masters are down-stairs. I'll show them to you to-morrow.\nThese are not bad, though.\"\n\n\"What a lot of ancestors to have!\"\n\n\"Oh, you'll find them all over the house. These are not Gwynnes. This\nhouse came to Lord Strathland through the female line. It will be Jack's\neventually--one way or another; and Jack must be more like the Eltons\nthan the Gwynnes--unless, indeed, he is like his American ancestors.\"\nShe turned her soft non-committal eyes on the stranger. \"You are his\nthirty-first cousin, are you not?\"\n\n\"Not quite so remote. But why do you call him Jack? He is known to fame\nas Elton Gwynne.\"\n\n\"His name is John Elton Cecil Gwynne. We are given to the nickname these\ndays--to the abbreviation in general.\"\n\nThey were walking down a corridor, and Miss Thangue was peering through\nher lorgnette at the cards on the doors.\n\n\"I know you are on this side. I wrote your name myself. But exactly\nwhere--ah, here it is.\"\n\nShe opened the door of a square room with large roses on the white\nwall-paper, and fine old mahogany furniture. The sofa and chairs and\nwindows were covered with a chintz in harmony with the walls. \"It is\ncheerful, don't you think so?\" asked Miss Thangue, drawing one of the\nstraight curtains aside. \"Vicky had all the rooms done over, and I chose\nthe designs. She is quite intolerantly modern, and holds that when\nwall-paper and chintz can save an old house from looking like a\nsarcophagus, why not have them? That bell-cord connects with your maid's\nroom--\"\n\n\"I have no maid. I am not well off at all. I wonder Lady Victoria\nthought it worth while to ask me down.\"\n\n\"Dear me, how odd! May I sit with you a little while? I never before saw\na poor American girl.\"\n\n\"I'll be only too grateful if you will stay with me as long as you can.\nI am not exactly poor. I have a ranch near Rosewater, some property and\nan old house in San Francisco. All that makes me comfortable, but no\nmore; and there are so many terribly rich American girls!\"\n\n\"There are, indeed!\" Miss Thangue sat forward with the frank curiosity\nof the Englishwoman when inspecting a foreign specimen. But her\ncuriosity was kindly, for she was still a girl at heart, interested in\nother girls. Miss Otis, looking at her blond, virginal face, took for\ngranted that she was under thirty, and owed her weight to a fondness for\nsweets and sauces.\n\n\"How can you travel in Europe if you are not rich?\" demanded Flora. \"I\nnever dare venture over except as the guest of some more fortunate\nfriend.\"\n\n\"Are _you_ poor?\" asked Miss Otis, her eye arrested by the smart little\nafternoon frock of lace and chiffon and crepe-de-chine.\n\n\"Oh, horribly. But then we all are, over here. If it were not for the\nJews and the Americans we'd have to make our own clothes. The\ndressmakers never could afford to give us credit.\"\n\n\"They all looked very wealthy down-stairs.\"\n\n\"Smart, rather. This happens to be a set that knows how to dress. Many\ndon't. You know something of it yourself,\" she added, with a frank\nsurvey of the girl's well-cut travelling-frock and small hat. \"Lots of\nAmericans don't, if you don't mind my saying so--for all their\nreputation. I went to a dinner at an American Legation once and two of\nyour countrywomen came with their hats on. They had brought letters to\nthe Minister, and he hadn't taken the precaution of looking them over.\nHe was terribly mortified, poor thing.\"\n\nShe related the anecdote with philanthropic intention, but Miss Otis put\nher half-rejected doubts to flight by remarking, lightly:\n\n\"We don't do that even in Rosewater.\"\n\n\"Where _is_ Rosewater? What a jolly name!\"\n\n\"It is in northern California, not far from Lady Victoria's ranch and\nwhat is left of ours. I have spent most of my life in or near it--my\nfather was a lawyer.\"\n\n\"Do tell me about yourself!\" Like most amiable spinsters, she was as\ninterested in the suggestive stranger as in a new novel. She sank with a\nsigh of comfort into the depths of the chair. \"May I smoke? Are you\nshocked?\"\n\nThen she  apprehensively, fearing that her doubt might be\nconstrued as an insult to Rosewater.\n\nBut Miss Otis met it with her first smile. \"Oh no,\" she replied. \"Will\nyou give me one? Mine are in my trunk and they haven't brought it up.\"\nShe took a cigarette from the gayly tendered case and smoked for a few\nmoments in silence.\n\n\"I don't know why you should be interested in my history,\" she said at\nlast in her slow cold voice, so strikingly devoid of the national\nanimation. \"It has been far too uneventful. I have an adopted sister,\nsix years older than myself, who married twelve years ago. Her husband\nis an artist in San Francisco, rather a genius, so they are always poor.\nMy mother died when I was little. After my sister married I took care of\nmy father until I was twenty-one, when he died--four years ago. There\nare very good schools in Rosewater, particularly the High School. My\nfather also taught me languages. He had a very fine library. But I do\nnot believe this interests you. Doubtless you want to know something of\nthe life with which Lady Victoria is so remotely connected.\"\n\n\"I am far more interested in you. Tell me whichever you like first. How\n_are_ you related, by-the-way?\"\n\n\"Father used to draw our family tree whenever he had bronchitis in\nwinter. One of the most famous of the Spanish Californians was Don Jose\nArgueello. We are descended from one of his sons, who had a ranch of a\nhundred thousand acres in the south. When the Americans came, long\nafter, they robbed the Californians shamefully, but fortunately the son\nof the Argueello that owned the ranch at the time married an American\ngirl whose father bought up the mortgages. He left the property to his\nonly grandchild, a girl, who married my great-grandfather, James Otis--a\nnorthern rancher, born in Boston, and descended from old Sam Adams. He\nhad two children, a boy and a girl, who inherited the northern and\nsouthern ranches in equal shares. The girl came over to England to visit\nan aunt who lived here, was presented at court, and straightway married\na lord.\"\n\n\"Then you are second cousin to Vicky and third to Jack. I had no idea\nthe relationship was so close.\"\n\n\"It has seemed very remote to me ever since I laid eyes on Lady Victoria\ndown-stairs. Father made me promise, just before he died, that if ever I\nvisited Europe I would look her up. Somehow I hadn't thought of her\nexcept as Elton Gwynne's mother, so I wrote to her without a qualm. But\nI see that she is an individual.\"\n\n\"Rather! How self-contained our great London is, after all! Vicky has\nbeen a beauty for over thirty years--to be sure her fame was at its\nheight before you were old enough to be interested in such things. But I\nshould have thought your father--\"\n\n\"He must have known all about her. It comes back to me that he was very\nproud of the connection for more than family reasons, but it made no\nimpression on me at the time.\"\n\n\"Proud?\"\n\n\"Yes, he was rather a snob. He was very clever, but he fell out of\nthings, and being able to dwell on his English and Spanish connections\nmeant a good deal to him. I can recite the family history backwards.\"\n\n\"But if he was clever, why on earth did he live in Rosewater? Surely he\ncould have practised in San Francisco?\"\n\n\"He drank. When a man drinks he doesn't care much where he lives. My\nfather had fads but no ambition.\"\n\n\"Great heaven!\" exclaimed Miss Thangue, aghast at this toneless\nfrankness. \"You must have been glad to be rid of him!\"\n\n\"I was fond of him, but his death was a great relief. He was a hard\nsteady secret drinker. I nursed him through several attacks of delirium\ntremens, and was always in fear that he would get out and disgrace us.\nSometimes he did, although when I saw the worst coming I generally\nmanaged to get him over to the ranch. Of course it tied me down. I\nrarely even visited my sister. My father hated San Francisco. He had\npractised there in his youth, promised great things, had plenty of\nmoney. The time came--\" She shrugged her shoulders, although without the\nslightest change of expression. \"I never lived my own life until he\ndied, but I have lived it ever since.\"\n\n\"And the first thing you did with your liberty was to come to Europe,\"\nsaid Miss Thangue, with a sympathetic smile.\n\n\"Of course. My father and uncle had got rid of most of their property\nlong before they died; there isn't an acre left of our share in the\nsouthern estate. But my uncle died six years ago and willed me all that\nremained of the northern, as well as some land in the poorer quarter of\nSan Francisco. I could not touch the principal during the lifetime of my\nfather, but we lived on the ranch and I managed it and was entitled, by\nthe terms of the will, to what I could make it yield. When I was finally\nmistress of my fortunes I left it in charge of an old servant, sold\nenough to pay off the mortgage on a property in San Francisco I\ninherited from my mother, and came to Europe with a personally conducted\ntour.\"\n\nMiss Thangue shuddered. The phrase unrolled a vista of commonness and\nattrition. Miss Otis continued, calmly: \"That is the way I should feel\nnow. But it was my only chance then; or rather I had seen enough of\nbusiness to avoid making mistakes when I could. In that way I learned\nthe ropes. After we had been rushed about for six weeks and I could not\nhave told you whether the Pitti Palace was in Italy or France, and the\ncelebrated frescos were one vast pink smudge, the party returned and I\nwandered on by myself. I spent a winter in Paris, and months in\nBrittany, Austria, Italy, Spain--Munich.\" It was here that her even\ntones left their register for a second. \"I studied the languages, the\nliteratures, the peoples, music, pictures. In Munich\"--this time Flora's\nalert ear detected no vibration--\"and also in Rome, I saw something of\nsociety. It was a life full of freedom, and I shall never cease to be\ngrateful for it, but I must go home soon and look after my affairs. I\nleft England to the last, like the best things of the banquet. I hope\nLady Victoria--I shall never be able to call her Cousin Victoria, as I\nremember father did--will be nice to me. I have seen a good deal of\nlife, but have never had a real _girl's_ time, and I should love it.\nBesides, I have a lot of new frocks.\"\n\n\"I am sure Vicky will be nice to you. If she isn't, I'll find some one\nthat will be. You might marry Jack if you had money enough. We are dying\nto get him married--and a California cousin--it would be too romantic.\nAnd you would hold your own anywhere!\"\n\nBut Miss Otis expanded a fine nostril. \"I have no desire to marry. I\nfeel as if I had had enough of men to last until I am forty--what with\nthose I have buried, and others I have known at home and in Europe--to\nsay nothing of the executors of my uncle's will, who did not approve of\nmy coming abroad alone and delayed the settlement of the estate as long\nas possible. And now I have had too much liberty! Besides, I have seen\n'Jack's' picture--two years ago, in a magazine. I will confess I had\nsome romantic notions about him: imagined him very dashing, bold,\nhandsome; insolent, if you like--the traditional young aristocrat,\nglorified by genius. He looks like Uncle Hiram.\"\n\n\"Is that who Jack looks like? We never could make out. No, Jack is not\nmuch to look at, except when he wakes up--I have seen him quite\ntransfigured on the platform. But he is as insolent as you could wish,\nand has a superb confidence in himself that his enemies\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}
{"id": "pg19_007", "title": "Beltane The Smith by Jeffery Farnol", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10064", "tokens": 8192, "chars": 31260, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nHOW BELTANE LIVED WITHIN THE GREENWOOD\n\n\nIn a glade of the forest, yet not so far but that one might hear the\nchime of bells stealing across the valley from the great minster of\nMortain on a still evening, dwelt Beltane the Smith.\n\nAlone he lived in the shadow of the great trees, happy when the piping\nof the birds was in his ears, and joying to listen to the plash and\nmurmur of the brook that ran merrily beside his hut; or pausing 'twixt\nthe strokes of his ponderous hammer to catch its never failing music.\n\nA mighty man was Beltane the Smith, despite his youth already great of\nstature and comely of feature. Much knew he of woodcraft, of the growth\nof herb and tree and flower, of beast and bird, and how to tell each by\nits cry or song or flight; he knew the ways of fish in the streams, and\ncould tell the course of the stars in the heavens; versed was he\nlikewise in the ancient wisdoms and philosophies, both Latin and Greek,\nhaving learned all these things from him whom men called Ambrose the\nHermit. But of men and cities he knew little, and of women and the\nways of women, less than nothing, for of these matters Ambrose spake\nnot.\n\nThus, being grown from youth to manhood, for that a man must needs\nlive, Beltane builded him a hut beside the brook, and set up an anvil\nthereby whereon he beat out bill-hooks and axe-heads and such\nimplements as the charcoal-burners and they that lived within the green\nhad need of.\n\nOft-times, of an evening, he would seek out the hermit Ambrose, and\nthey would talk together of many things, but seldom of men and cities,\nand never of women and the ways of women. Once, therefore, wondering,\nBeltane had said:\n\n\"My father, amongst all these matters you speak never of women and the\nways of women, though history is full of their doings, and all poets\nsing praise of their wondrous beauty, as this Helena of Troy, whom men\ncalled 'Desire of the World.'\"\n\nBut Ambrose sighed and shook his head, saying:\n\n\"Art thou indeed a man, so soon, my Beltane?\" and so sat watching him\nawhile. Anon he rose and striding to and fro spake sudden and\npassionate on this wise: \"Beltane, I tell thee the beauty of women is\nan evil thing, a lure to wreck the souls of men. By woman came sin\ninto the world, by her beauty she blinds the eyes of men to truth and\nhonour, leading them into all manner of wantonness whereby their very\nmanhood is destroyed. This Helen of Troy, of whom ye speak, was nought\nbut a vile adulteress, with a heart false and foul, by whose sin many\ndied and Troy town was utterly destroyed.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" sighed Beltane, \"that one so fair should be a thing so evil!\"\n\nThereafter he went his way, very sad and thoughtful, and that night,\nlying upon his bed, he heard the voices of the trees sighing and\nmurmuring one to another like souls that sorrowed for sin's sake, and\nbroken dreams and ideals.\n\n\"Alas! that one so fair should be a thing so evil!\" But, above the\nwhispers of the trees, loud and insistent rose the merry chatter of the\nbrook speaking to him of many things; of life, and the lust of life;\nthe pomp and stir of cities; the sound of song and laughter; of women\nand the beauty of women, and of the sweet, mad wonder of love. Of all\nthese things the brook sang in the darkness, and Beltane sighed, and\nsighing, fell asleep.\n\nThus lived my Beltane in the woodland, ranging the forest with eye\nquick to see the beauty of earth and sky, and ear open to the thousand\nvoices around him; or, busied at his anvil, hearkening to the wondrous\ntales of travel and strange adventure told by wandering knight and\nman-at-arms the while, with skilful hand, he mended broken mail or dented\ncasque; and thereafter, upon the mossy sward, would make trial of their\nstrength and valour, whereby he both took and gave right lusty knocks;\nor again, when work failed, he would lie upon the grass, chin on fist,\nporing over some ancient legend, or sit with brush and colours,\nilluminating on vellum, wherein right cunning was he. Now it chanced\nthat as he sat thus, brush in hand, upon a certain fair afternoon, he\nsuddenly espied one who stood watching him from the shade of a tree,\nnear by. A very tall man he was, long and lean and grim of aspect, with\na mouth wry-twisted by reason of an ancient sword-cut, and yet, withal,\nhe had a jovial eye. But now, seeing himself observed, he shook his\ngrizzled head and sighed. Whereat said Beltane, busied with his brush\nagain:\n\n\"Good sir, pray what's amiss?\"\n\n\"The world, youth, the world--'tis all amiss. Yet mark me! here sit you\na-dabbing colour with a little brush!\"\n\nAnswered Beltane: \"An so ye seek to do your duty as regardfully as I\nnow daub this colour, messire, in so much shall the world be bettered.\"\n\n\"My duty, youth,\" quoth the stranger, rasping a hand across his\ngrizzled chin, \"my duty? Ha, 'tis well said, so needs must I now fight\nwith thee.\"\n\n\"Fight with me!\" says Beltane, his keen gaze upon the speaker.\n\n\"Aye, verily!\" nodded the stranger, and, forthwith, laying by his long\ncloak, he showed two swords whose broad blades glittered, red and evil,\nin the sunset.\n\n\"But,\" says Beltane, shaking his head, \"I have no quarrel with thee,\ngood fellow.\"\n\n\"Quarrel?\" exclaimed the stranger, \"no quarrel, quotha? What matter for\nthat? Surely you would not forego a good bout for so small a matter?\nDoth a man eat only when famishing, or drink but to quench his thirst?\nOut upon thee, messire smith!\"\n\n\"But sir,\" said Beltane, bending to his brush again, \"an I should fight\nwith thee, where would be the reason?\"\n\n\"Nowhere, youth, since fighting is ever at odds with reason; yet for\nsuch unreasonable reasons do reasoning men fight.\"\n\n\"None the less, I will not fight thee,\" answered Beltane, deftly\ntouching in the wing of an archangel, \"so let there be an end on't.\"\n\n\"End forsooth, we have not yet begun! An you must have a quarrel, right\nfully will I provoke thee, since fight with thee I must, it being so my\nduty--\"\n\n\"How thy duty?\"\n\n\"I am so commanded.\"\n\n\"By whom?\"\n\n\"By one who, being dead, yet liveth. Nay, ask no names, yet mark me\nthis--the world's amiss, boy. Pentavalon groans beneath a black\nusurper's heel, all the sins of hell are loose, murder and riot, lust\nand rapine. March you eastward but a day through the forest yonder and\nyou shall see the trees bear strange fruit in our country. The world's\namiss, messire, yet here sit you wasting your days, a foolish brush\nstuck in thy fist. So am I come, nor will I go hence until I have tried\nthy mettle.\"\n\nQuoth Beltane, shaking his head, intent upon his work:\n\n\"You speak me riddles, sir.\"\n\n\"Yet can I speak thee to the point and so it be thy wish, as thus--now\nmark me, boy! Thou art a fool, a dog, a fatuous ass, a slave, a\nnincompoop, a cowardly boy, and as such--mark me again!--now do I spit\nat thee!\"\n\nHereupon Beltane, having finished the archangel's wing, laid by his\nbrush and, with thoughtful mien, arose, and being upon his feet, turned\nhim, swift and sudden, and caught the stranger in a fierce and cunning\nwrestling grip, and forthwith threw him upon his back. Whereat this\nstrange man, sitting cross-legged upon the sward, smiled his wry and\ntwisted smile and looked upon Beltane with bright, approving eye.\n\n\"A pretty spirit!\" he nodded. \"'Tis a sweet and gentle youth all good\nbeef and bone; a little green as yet, perchance, but 'tis no matter. A\nmighty arm, a noble thigh, and shoulders--body o' me! But 'tis in the\nbreed. Young sir, by these same signs and portents my soul is uplifted\nand hope singeth a new song within me!\" So saying, the stranger sprang\nnimbly to his feet and catching up one of the swords took it by the\nblade and gave its massy hilt to Beltane's hand. Said he:\n\n\"Look well upon this blade, young sir; in duchy, kingdom or county you\nshall not find its match, nor the like of the terrible hand that bore\nit. Time was when this good steel--mark how it glitters yet!--struck\ndeep for liberty and justice and all fair things, before whose might\noppression quailed and hung its head, and in whose shadow peace and\nmercy rested. 'Twas long ago, but this good steel is bright and\nundimmed as ever. Ha! mark it, boy--those eyes o' thine shall ne'er\nbehold its equal!\"\n\nSo Beltane took hold upon the great sword, felt the spring and balance\nof the blade and viewed it up from glittering point to plain and simple\ncross-guard. And thus, graven deep within the broad steel he read this\nword:\n\nRESURGAM.\n\n\"Ha!\" cried the stranger, \"see you the legend, good youth? Speak me now\nwhat it doth signify.\"\n\nAnd Beltane answered:\n\n\"'I shall arise!'\"\n\n\"'Arise' good boy, aye, verily, mark me that. 'Tis a fair thought, look\nyou, and the motto of a great and noble house, and, by the Rood, I\nthink, likewise a prophecy!\" Thus speaking the stranger stooped, and\ntaking up the other sword faced Beltane therewith, saying in soft and\nwheedling tones: \"Come now, let us fight together thou and I, and deny\nme not, lest,--mark me this well, youth,--lest I spit at thee again.\"\n\nThen he raised his sword, and smote Beltane with the flat of it, and\nthe blow stung, wherefore Beltane instinctively swung his weapon and\nthrilled with sudden unknown joy at the clash of steel on steel; and\nso they engaged.\n\nAnd there, within the leafy solitude, Beltane and the stranger fought\ntogether. The long blades whirled and flashed and rang upon the\nstillness; and ever, as they fought, the stranger smiled his wry smile,\nmocking and gibing at him, whereat Beltane's mouth grew the grimmer and\nhis blows the heavier, yet wherever he struck, there already was the\nstranger's blade to meet him, whereat the stranger laughed fierce and\nloud, taunting him on this wise:\n\n\"How now, thou dauber of colours, betake thee to thy little brush,\nbelike it shall serve thee better! Aye me, betake thee to thy little\nbrush, 'twere better fitted to thee than a noble sword, thou daubing\nboy!\"\n\nNow did my Beltane wax wroth indeed and smote amain until his breath\ngrew short and thick, but ever steel rang on steel, and ever the\nstranger laughed and gibed until Beltane's strokes grew slower:--then,\nwith a sudden fierce shout, did the stranger beset my Beltane with\nstrokes so swift and strong, now to right of him, now to left, that the\nvery air seemed full of flaming, whirling steel, and, in that moment,\nas Beltane gave back, the stranger smote thrice in as many moments with\nthe flat of his blade, once upon the crown, once upon the shoulder, and\nonce upon the thigh. Fierce eyed and scant of breath, Beltane\nredoubled his blows, striving to beat his mocker to the earth, whereat\nhe but laughed again, saying:\n\n\"Look to thy long legs, dullard!\" and forthwith smote Beltane upon the\nleg. \"Now thine arm, slothful boy--thy left arm!\" and he smote Beltane\nupon the arm. \"Now thy sconce, boy, thy mazzard, thy sleepy, golden\nhead!\" and straightway he smote him on the head, and, thereafter, with\nsudden, cunning stroke, beat the great sword from Beltane's grip, and\nso, laughing yet, paused and stood leaning upon his own long weapon.\n\nBut Beltane stood with bent head, hurt in his pride, angry and beyond\nall thought amazed; yet, being humbled most of all he kept his gaze\nbent earthwards and spake no word.\n\nNow hereupon the stranger grew solemn likewise and looked at Beltane\nwith kindly, approving eyes.\n\n\"Nay, indeed,\" quoth he, \"be not abashed, good youth; take it not amiss\nthat I have worsted thee. 'Tis true, had I been so minded I might have\ncut thee into gobbets no larger than thy little brush, but then, body\no' me! I have lived by stroke of sword from my youth up and have fought\nin divers wars and countries, so take it not to heart, good youth!\"\nWith the word he nodded and, stooping, took up the sword, and,\nthereafter, cast his cloak about him, whereat Beltane lifted his head\nand spake:\n\n\"Art going, sir? Wilt not try me once again? Methinks I might do a\nlittle better this time, an so God wills.\"\n\n\"Aye, so thou shalt, sweet youth,\" cried the stranger, clapping him\nupon the shoulder, \"yet not now, for I must begone, yet shall I\nreturn.\"\n\n\"Then I pray you leave with me the sword till you be come again.\"\n\n\"The sword--ha! doth thy soul cleave unto it so soon, my good, sweet\nboy? Leave the sword, quotha? Aye, truly--some day. But for the nonce--\nno, no, thy hand is not fitted to bear it yet, nor worthy such a blade,\nbut some day, belike--who knows? Fare thee well, sweet youth, I come\nagain to-morrow.\"\n\nAnd so the tall, grim stranger turned him about, smiling his wry smile,\nand strode away through the green. Then Beltane went back, minded to\nfinish his painting, but the colours had lost their charm for him,\nmoreover, the light was failing. Wherefore he put brushes and colours\naside, and, stripping, plunged into the cool, sweet waters of a certain\nquiet pool, and so, much heartened and refreshed thereby, went betimes\nto bed. But now he thought no more of women and the ways of women, but\nrather of this stranger man, of his wry smile and of his wondrous\nsword-play; and bethinking him of the great sword, he yearned after\nit, as only youth may yearn, and so, sighing, fell asleep. And in his\ndreams all night was the rushing thunder of many fierce feet and the\nroaring din of bitter fight and conflict.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nUp to an elbow sprang Beltane to find the sun new risen, filling his\nhumble chamber with its golden glory, and, in this radiance, upon the\nopen threshold, the tall, grim figure of the stranger.\n\n\"Messire,\" quoth Beltane, rubbing sleepy eyes, \"you wake betimes,\nmeseemeth.\"\n\n\"Aye, sluggard boy; there is work to do betwixt us.\" \"How so, sir?\"\n\n\"My time in the greenwood groweth short; within the week I must away,\nfor there are wars and rumours of wars upon the borders.\"\n\nQuoth Beltane, wondering:\n\n\"War and conflict have been within my dreams all night!\"\n\n\"Dreams, boy! I tell thee the time groweth ripe for action--and, mark\nme this! wherein, perchance, thou too shalt share, yet much have I to\nteach thee first, so rise, slug-a-bed, rise!\"\n\nNow when Beltane was risen and clad he folded his arms across his broad\nchest and stared upon the stranger with grave, deep-searching eyes.\n\n\"Who art thou?\" he questioned, \"and what would you here again?\"\n\n\"As to thy first question, sir smith, 'tis no matter for that, but as\nfor thy second, to-day am I come to teach thee the use and manage of\nhorse and lance, it being so my duty.\"\n\n\"And wherefore thy duty?\"\n\n\"For that I am so commanded.\"\n\n\"By whom?\"\n\n\"By one who yet liveth, being dead.\"\n\nNow Beltane frowned at this, and shook his head, saying:\n\n\"More riddles, messire? Yet now will I speak thee plain, as thus: I am\na smith, and have no lust to strife or knightly deeds, nor will I e'er\nattempt them, for strife begetteth bitter strife and war is an evil\nthing. 'They that trust to the sword shall perish by the sword,' 'tis\nso written, and is, meseemeth, a faithful saying. This sorry world hath\nknown over much of war and hate, of strife and bloodshed, so shall\nthese my hands go innocent of more.\"\n\nThen indeed did the stranger stare with jaws agape for wonder at my\nBeltane's saying, and, so staring, turned him to the door and back\nagain, and fain would speak, yet could not for a while. Then:\n\n\"Besotted boy!\" he cried. \"O craven youth! O babe! O suckling! Was it\nfor this thou wert begot? Hast thou no bowels, no blood, no manhood?\nForsooth, and must I spit on thee indeed?\"\n\n\"And so it be thy will, messire,\" said Beltane, steady-eyed.\n\nBut as they stood thus, Beltane with arms yet crossed, his lips\nup-curving at the other's fierce amaze, the stranger grim-faced and\nfrowning, came a shadow athwart the level glory of the sun, and,\nturning, Beltane beheld the hermit Ambrose, tall and spare beneath his\ntattered gown, bareheaded and bare of foot, whose eyes were bright and\nquick, despite the snow of hair and beard, and in whose gentle face and\nhumble mien was yet a high and noble look at odds with his lowly guise\nand tattered vesture; at sight of whom the grim-faced stranger, of a\nsudden, bowed his grizzled head and sank upon his knee.\n\n\"Lord!\" he said, and kissed the hermit's long, coarse robe. Whereon the\nhermit bent and touched him with a gentle hand.\n\n\"_Benedicite_, my son!\" said he. \"Go you, and leave us together a\nwhile.\"\n\nForthwith the stranger rose from his knee and went out into the glory\nof the morning. Then the hermit came to Beltane and set his two hands\nupon his mighty shoulders and spake to him very gently, on this wise:\n\n\"Thou knowest, my Beltane, how all thy days I have taught thee to love\nall fair, and sweet, and noble things, for they are of God. 'Twere a\nfair thought, now, to live out thy life here, within these calm, leafy\nsolitudes--but better death by the sword for some high, unselfish\npurpose, than to live out a life of ease, safe and cloistered all thy\ndays. To live for thine own ends--'tis human; to die for some great\ncause, for liberty, or for another's good--that, my son, were God-like.\nAnd there was a Man of Sorrows Whose word was this, that He came\n'not to bring peace on this earth, but a sword.' For good cannot\noutface evil but strife must needs follow. Behold now here another\nsword, my Beltane; keep it henceforth so long as thou keep honour.\" So\nsaying, Ambrose the Hermit took from beneath his habit that for which\nBeltane had yearned, that same great blade whereon whose steel was\ngraven the legend:\n\nRESURGAM.\n\nSo Ambrose put the sword in Beltane's hand, saying:\n\n\"Be terrible, my son, that evil may flee before thee, learn to be\nstrong that thou may'st be merciful.\" Then the hermit stretched forth\nhis hands and blessed my Beltane, and turned about, and so was gone.\n\nBut Beltane stood awhile to swing the great blade lightly to and fro\nand to stare upon it with shining eyes. Then, having hid it within his\nbed, he went forth into the glade. And here he presently beheld a great\ngrey horse tethered to a tree hard by, a mettled steed that tossed its\nnoble head and snuffed the fragrant air of morning, pawing at the earth\nwith impatient hoof. Now, as he stood gazing, came the stranger and\ntouched him on the arm.\n\n\"Messire,\" said he, \"try an thou canst back the steed yonder.\"\n\nBeltane smiled, for he had loved horses all his days, and loosing the\nhorse, led it out into the open and would have mounted, but the\nspirited beast, knowing him not, reared and plunged and strove to break\nthe grip upon the bridle, but the grip was strong and compelling; then\nBeltane soothed him with gentle voice and hand, and, of a sudden,\nvaulted lightly into the saddle, and being there, felt the great beast\nrear under him, and, laughing joyously, struck him with open palm and\nset off at a thunderous gallop. Away, away they sped up the sunny\nglade, past oak and beech and elm, through light and shadow, until\nbefore them showed a tree of vast girth and mighty spread of branches.\nNow would Beltane have reined aside, but the great horse, ears flat and\neyes rolling, held blindly on. Then Beltane frowned and leaning\nforward, seized the bridle close beside the bit, and gripping it so,\nput forth his strength. Slowly, slowly the great, fierce head was drawn\nlow and lower, the foam-flecked jaws gaped wide, but Beltane's grip\ngrew ever the fiercer until, snorting, panting, wild-eyed, the great\ngrey horse faltered in his stride, checked his pace, slipped, stumbled,\nand so stood quivering in the shade of the tree. Thereafter Beltane\nturned him and, galloping back, drew rein where the stranger sat,\ncross-legged, watching him with his wry smile.\n\n\"Aye,\" he nodded, \"we shall make of thee a horseman yet. But as to\nlance now, and armour--\"\n\nQuoth Beltane, smiling:\n\n\"Good sir, I am a smith, and in my time have mended many a suit of\nmail, aye, and made them too, though 'twas but to try my hand. As for a\nlance, I have oft tilted at the ring astride a forest pony, and\nbetimes, have run a course with wandering men-at-arms.\"\n\n\"Say you so, boy?\" said the stranger, and rising, took from behind a\ntree a long and heavy lance and thrust it into Beltane's grip; then,\ndrawing his sword, he set it upright in the sward, and upon the hilt he\nput his cap, saying:\n\n\"Ride back up the glade, and try an thou canst pick up my cap on thy\npoint, at a gallop.\" So Beltane rode up the glade and wheeling at a\ndistance, came galloping down with levelled lance, and thundered by\nwith the cap fluttering from his lance point.\n\n\"Art less of a dullard than I thought thee,\" said the stranger, taking\nback his cap, \"though, mark me boy, 'tis another matter to ride against\na man fully armed and equipped, lance to lance and shield to shield,\nthan to charge a harmless, ancient leathern cap. Still, art less of a\ndullard than I thought thee. But there is the sword, now--with the\nsword thou art indeed but a sorry fool! Go fetch the sword and I will\ne'en belabor thee again.\"\n\nSo Beltane, lighting down from the horse that reared and plunged no\nmore, went and fetched the great sword; and when they had laid their\njerkins by (for the sun was hot) they faced each other, foot to foot\nand eye to eye. Then once again the long blades whirled and flew and\nrang together, and once again the stranger laughed and gibed and struck\nmy Beltane how and where he would, nor gave him stay or respite till\nBeltane's mighty arm grew aweary and his shoulder ached and burned;\nthen, when he recked not of it, the stranger, with the same cunning\nstroke, beat the sword from Beltane's hand, and laughed aloud and\nwagged his head, saying:\n\n\"Art faint, boy, and scant o' breath already? Methinks we ne'er shall\nmake of thee a lusty sworder!\" But beholding Beltane's flushing cheek\nand drooping eye, reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.\n\n\"Go to!\" cried he, \"art young and all unlearned as yet--heed not my\ngibes and quirks, 'tis ever so my custom when steel is ringing, and\nmark me, I do think it a good custom, as apt to put a man off his ward\nand flurry him in his stroke. Never despair, youth, for I tell thee,\nnorth and south, and east and west my name is known, nor shall you find\nin any duchy, kingdom or county, a sworder such as I. For, mark me now!\nyour knight and man-at-arms, trusting to his armour, doth use his sword\nbut to thrust and smite. But--and mark me again, boy! a man cannot go\never in his armour, nor yet be sure when foes are nigh, and, at all\ntimes, 'tis well to make thy weapon both sword and shield; 'tis a\ngoodly art, indeed I think a pretty one. Come now, take up thy sword\nand I will teach thee all my strokes and show thee how 'tis done.\"\n\nThus then, this stranger dwelt the week with Beltane in the greenwood,\nteaching him, day by day, tricks of sword and much martial lore beside.\nAnd, day by day, a friendship waxed and grew betwixt them so that upon\nthe seventh morning, as they broke their fast together, Beltane's heart\nwas heavy and his look downcast; whereat the stranger spake him thus:\n\n\"Whence thy dole, good youth?\"\n\n\"For that to-day needs must I part with thee.\"\n\n\"And thy friends are few, belike?\"\n\n\"None, messire,\" answered Beltane, sighing.\n\n\"Aye me! And yet 'tis well enough, for--mark me, youth!--friends be\nofttimes a mixed blessing. As for me, 'tis true I am thy friend and so\nshall ever be, so long as you shall bear yon goodly blade.\"\n\n\"And wherefore?\" questioned Beltane.\n\n\"Moreover thou art my scholar, and like, perchance, to prove thyself,\nsome day, a notable sworder and a sweet and doughty fighter, belike.\"\n\n\"Yet hast never spoken me thy name, messire.\"\n\n\"Why, hast questioned me but once, and then thou wert something of a\nblockhead dreamer, methought. But now, messire Beltane, since thou\nwould'st know--Benedict of Bourne am I called.\"\n\nNow hereupon Beltane rose and stood upon his feet, staring wide-eyed at\nthis grim-faced stranger who, with milk-bowl at lip, paused to smile\nhis wry smile. \"Aha!\" said he, \"hast heard such a name ere now, even\nhere in the greenwood?\"\n\n\"Sir,\" answered Beltane, \"betimes I have talked with soldiers and\nmen-at-arms, so do I know thee for that same great knight who, of all the\nnobles of Pentavalon, doth yet withstand the great Duke Ivo--\"\n\n\"Call you that black usurper 'great,' youth? Body o' me! I knew a\ngreater, once, methinks!\"\n\n\"Aye,\" nodded Beltane, \"there was him men called 'Beltane the Strong.'\"\n\n\"Ha!\" quoth Sir Benedict, setting down his milk-bowl, \"what know you\nof Duke Beltane?\"\n\n\"Nought but that he was a great and lusty fighter who yet loved peace\nand mercy, but truth and justice most of all.\"\n\n\"And to-day,\" sighed Sir Benedict, \"to-day we have Black Ivo! Aye me!\nthese be sorry days for Pentavalon. 'Tis said he woos the young Duchess\nyonder. Hast ever seen Helen of Mortain, sir smith?\"\n\n\"Nay, but I've heard tell that she is wondrous fair.\"\n\n\"Hum!\" quoth Sir Benedict, \"I love not your red-haired spit-fires.\nMethinks, an Ivo win her, she'll lead him how she will, or be broke in\nthe adventure--a malison upon him, be it how it may!\"\n\nSo, having presently made an end of eating, Sir Benedict arose and\nforthwith donned quilted gambeson, and thereafter his hauberk of bright\nmail and plain surcoat, and buckling his sword about him, strode into\nthe glade where stood the great grey horse. Now, being mounted, Sir\nBenedict stayed awhile to look down at Beltane, whiles Beltane looked\nup at him.\n\n\"Messire Beltane,\" said he, pointing to his scarred cheek, \"you look\nupon my scar, I think?\"\n\nQuoth Beltane, flushing hot:\n\n\"Nay, sir; in truth, not I.\"\n\n\"Why look now, sweet youth, 'tis a scar that likes me well, though\n'twas in no battle I took it, yet none the less, I would not be without\nit. By this I may be known among a thousand. 'Benedict o' the Mark,'\nsome call me, and 'tis, methinks, as fair a name as any. But look now,\nand mark me this well, Beltane,--should any come to thee within the\ngreen, by day or night, and say to thee, 'Benedict o' the Mark bids\nthee arise and follow,'--then follow, messire, and so, peradventure,\nthou shalt arise indeed. Dost mark me well, youth?\"\n\n\"Aye, Sir Benedict.\"\n\n\"Heigho!\" sighed Sir Benedict, \"thou'rt a fair sized babe to bear\nwithin a cloak, and thou hast been baptized in blood ere now--and there\nbe more riddles for thee, boy, and so, until we meet, fare thee well,\nmessire Beltane!\"\n\nSo saying, Sir Benedict of Bourne smiled his twisted smile and,\nwheeling his horse, rode away down the glade, his mail glistening in\nthe early light and his lance point winking and twinkling amid the\ngreen.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nHOW BELTANE HAD WORD WITH THE DUKE, BLACK IVO\n\n\nNow it fell out upon a day, that as Beltane strode the forest ways,\nthere met him a fine cavalcade, gay with the stir of broidered\npetticoat and ermined mantle; and, pausing beneath a tree, he stood to\nhearken to the soft, sweet voices of the ladies and to gaze enraptured\nupon their varied beauty. Foremost of all rode a man richly habited, a\nman of great strength and breadth of shoulder, and of a bearing high\nand arrogant. His face, framed in long black hair that curled to meet\nhis shoulder, was of a dark and swarthy hue, fierce looking and\nmasterful by reason of prominent chin and high-arched nose, and of his\nthin-lipped, relentless mouth. Black were his eyes and bold; now\nstaring bright and wide, now glittering 'twixt heavy, narrowed lids;\nyet when he smiled they glittered brightest, and his lips showed\nmoistly red. Beside him rode a lady of a wondrous dark beauty, sleepy\neyed and languid; yet her glance was quick to meet the Duke's bold\nlook, and, 'neath her mantle, her fingers met, once in a while, and\nclung with his, what time his red lips would smile; but, for the most\npart, his brow was gloomy and he fingered his chin as one in thought.\n\nAs he paced along upon his richly caparisoned steed, pinching at his\nlong, blue-shaven chin with supple fingers, his heavy brows drawn low,\nof a sudden his narrowed lids widened and his eyes gleamed bright and\nblack as they beheld my Beltane standing in the shade of the tree.\n\n\"Aha!\" said he, drawing rein, \"what insolent, long-legged rogue art\nthou, to stand gaping at thy betters?\"\n\nAnd Beltane answered:\n\n\"No rogue, messire, but an honest man, I pray God, whom folk call\nBeltane the Smith.\"\n\nThe staring eyes grew suddenly narrow, the scarlet mouth curled in a\nslow smile, and the tall man spake, yet with his gaze bent ever upon\nBeltane:\n\n\"Fair lords,\" he said, \"and you, most sweet and gentle ladies, our\nsport hath been but poor, hitherto--methinks I can show you a better,\n'tis a game we play full oft in my country. Would that our gracious\nlady of Mortain were here, nor had balked us of her wilful company. Ho!\nGefroi!\" he called, \"come you and break me the back of this 'honest'\nrogue.\" And straightway came one from the rear, where rode the servants\nand men-at-arms, a great, bronzed fellow, bearded to the eyes of him,\nloosing his sword-belt as he came; who, having tossed aside cap and\npourpoint, strode toward Beltane, his eyes quick and bright, his teeth\nagleam through the hair of his beard.\n\n\"Come, thou forest rogue,\" said he, \"my lord Duke loveth not to wait\nfor man or maid, so--have at thee!\"\n\nGreat he looked and tall as Beltane's self, a hairy man of mighty girth\nwith muscles that swelled on arm and breast and rippled upon his back.\nThus, as he stood and laughed, grimly confident and determined, not a\nfew were they who sighed for Beltane for his youth's sake, and because\nof his golden curls and gentle eyes, for this Gefroi was accounted a\nvery strong man, and a matchless wrestler withal.\n\n\"'Tis a fair match, how think you, Sir Jocelyn?\" said the Duke, and\nturned him to one who rode at his elbow; a youthful, slender figure\nwith long curled hair and sleepy eyes, \"a fair match, Sir Jocelyn?\"\n\n\"In very sooth, sweet my lord, gramercy and by your gracious leave--not\nso,\" sighed Sir Jocelyn. \"This Gefroi o' thine is a rare breaker of\nnecks and hath o'er-thrown all the wrestlers in the three duchies; a\nman is he, set in his strength and experienced, but this forester, tall\nthough he be, is but a beardless youth.\"\n\nThe Duke smiled his slow smile, his curving nostrils quivered and were\nstill, and he glanced toward Sir Jocelyn through veiling lids. Quoth\nhe:\n\n\"Art, rather, for a game of ball, messire, or a song upon a lute?\" So\nsaying he turned and signed to Gefroi with his finger; as for Sir\nJocelyn, he only curled a lock of his long hair, and hummed beneath his\nbreath.\n\nNow Beltane, misliking the matter, would fain have gone upon his way,\nbut wheresoever he turned, there Gefroi was also, barring his path,\nwherefore Beltane's eye kindled and he raised his staff threateningly.\n\n\"Fellow,\" quoth he, \"stand from my way, lest I mischief thee.\"\n\nBut Gefroi only laughed and looked to his lord, who, beckoning an\narcher, bid him lay an arrow to his string.\n\n\"Shoot me the cowardly rogue so soon as he turn his back,\" said he,\nwhereat Gefroi laughed again, wagging his head.\n\n\"Come, forest knave,\" quoth he, \"I know a trick to snap thy neck so\nsweetly shalt never know, I warrant thee. Come, 'twill take but a\nmoment, and my lord begins to lack of patience.\"\n\nSo Beltane laid by his staff, and tightening his girdle, faced the\nhairy Gefroi; and there befell that, the which, though you shall find\nno mention of it in\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}
{"id": "pg19_008", "title": "Vashti by Augusta J. Evans Wilson", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31620", "tokens": 8192, "chars": 35131, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\n\"I can hear the sullen, savage roar of the breakers, if I do not see\nthem, and my pretty painted bark--expectation--is bearing down\nhelplessly upon them. Perhaps the unwelcome will not come to-day. What\nthen? I presume I should not care; and yet, I am curious to see\nhim,--anxious to know what sort of person will henceforth rule the\nhouse, and go in and out here as master. Of course the pleasant,\npeaceful days are at an end, for men always make din and strife in a\nhousehold,--at least my father did, and he is the only one I know much\nabout. But, after all, why borrow trouble?--the interloper may never\ncome.\"\n\nThe girl stood on tip-toe, shading her eyes with one hand, and peering\neagerly down the winding road which stretched at right angles to the\navenue, and over the hills, on towards the neighboring town. No moving\nspeck was visible; and, with a sigh of relief, she sank back on the\ngrassy mound and resumed the perusal of her book. Above and around her\nspread the wide branches of an aged apple-tree, feathered thickly with\npearly petals, which the wind tossed hither and thither and drifted\nover the bermuda, as restless tides strew pink-chambered shells on\nsloping strands; and down through the flowery limbs streamed the\nwaning March sun, throwing grotesque shadows on the sward and golden\nripples over the face and figure of the young lounger. A few yards\ndistant a row of whitewashed bee-hives extended along the western side\nof the garden-wall, where perched a peacock whose rainbow hues were\nburnished by the slanting rays that smote like flame the narrow pane\nof glass which constituted a window in each hive and permitted\ninvestigation of the tireless workers within. The afternoon was almost\nspent; the air, losing its balmy noon breath, grew chill with the\napproach of dew, and the figure under the apple-tree shivered\nslightly, and, closing her book, drew her scarlet shawl around her\nshoulders and leaned her dimpled chin on her knee.\n\nSixteen years had ripened and rounded the girlish form, and given to\nher countenance that indefinable charm which marks the timid hovering\nbetween careless, frolicsome youth, and calmly conscious womanhood;\nwhile perfect health rouged the polished cheeks and vermillioned the\nthin lips, whose outlines sharply indexed more of decision than\namiability of character.\n\nThere were hints of brown in the heavy mass of waveless dusky hair,\nthat was elaborately braided and coiled around the well turned\nhead, and certain amber rays suggestive of topaz and gold flashed\nout now and then in the dark-hazel iris of the large eyes, lending\nthem an eldritch and baleful glow. Fresh as the overhanging\napple-blooms, but immobile as if carved from pearl,--perhaps it\nwas just such a face as hers that fronted Jason, amid the clustering\nboughs of Colchian rhododendrons, when first he sought old AEetes'\nprescient daughter,--the maiden face of magical Medea, innocent as\nyet of murder, sacrilege, fratricide, and plunder,--eloquent of\nall possibilities of purity and peace, but vaguely adumbrating all\nconceivable disquietude and guilt.\n\nThe hushed expectancy of the fair young countenance had given place to\na dreamy languor, and the dark lashes drooped heavily, when a long\nshadow fell upon the grass, and simultaneously the peacock sounded its\nshrill alarm. Rising quickly the girl found herself face to face with\none upon whose features she had never looked before, and for a moment\neach eyed the other searchingly. The stranger raised his hat, and\ninclining his head slightly, said,--\n\n\"Permit me to ask your name?\"\n\n\"Salome Owen. And yours, sir, is--\"\n\n\"Ulpian Grey.\"\n\nFor a few seconds neither spoke; but the man smiled, and the girl bit\nher under-lip and frowned.\n\n\"Are you the miller's daughter?\"\n\n\"I am the miller's daughter; and you are the master of Grassmere.\"\n\n\"It seems that I come home like Rip Van Winkle, or Ulysses, unknown,\nunwelcomed,--unlike the latter,--even by a dog.\"\n\n\"Where is your sister?\"\n\n\"Not having seen her for five years, I am unable to answer.\"\n\n\"She went to town two hours ago, to meet you.\"\n\n\"Then, after all, I am expected; but pray by what route--balloon or\ntelegraph?\"\n\n\"Miss Jane went to the railroad depot, but thought it possible you\nmight not arrive to-day, and said she would attend a meeting at the\nchurch, if you failed to come. I presume she missed you in the crowd.\nSir, will you walk into the house?\"\n\nPerhaps he did not hear the question, and certainly he did not heed\nit, amid the clamorous recollections that rushed upon him as he gazed\nearnestly over the lawn, down the avenue, and up at the ivy-mantled\nfront of the old brick homestead. Thinking it might impress him as\nludicrous or officious that she should invite him to enter and take\npossession of his own establishment, Salome reddened and compressed\nher lips. Apparently forgetful of her presence, he stood with his hat\nin his hand, noting the changes that time had wrought: the growth of\nvenerable trees and favorite shrubs, the crumbling of fences, the\ngathering moss on the sun-dial, and the lichen stains upon two marble\nvases that held scarlet verbena on either side of the broad stone\nsteps.\n\nHis close-fitting travelling suit of gray showed the muscular,\nwell-developed form of a man of medium size, whose very erect carriage\nenhanced his height and invested him with a commanding air; while the\nunusual breadth of his chest and shoulders seemed to indicate that\nlife had called him to athletic out-door pursuits, rather than the dun\nand dusty atmosphere of a sedentary, cloistered career.\n\nThere are subtle countenances that baffle the dainty stipple and line\ntracery of time, refusing to become mere tablets, mere fleshy\nintaglios of the past, whereon every curious stranger may spell out\nthe bygone, and, counting their footprints, cast up the number of\nengraving years. Thus it happened that if Salome had not known from\nthe family Bible that this man was almost thirty-five, her eager\nscrutiny of his features would have discovered little concerning his\nage, and still less concerning his character. Exposure to the winds\nand heat of tropic regions had darkened and sallowed the complexion,\nwhich his clear deep blue eyes and light brown hair declared was\noriginally of Saxon fairness; in proof whereof, when he drew off one\nglove and lifted his hand it seemed as if the marble fingers of one\nstatue were laid against the bronze cheek of another.\n\nLooking intently at this grave yet benignant countenance, full of\nserenity, because calmly conscious of its power, the girl set her\nteeth and ground her heel into the velvet turf, for _frangas non\nflectes_ was written on his smooth, broad brow, and she felt fiercely\nrebellious as some fiery, free creature of the Kamse, when first\nconfronted with the bit and trappings of him who will henceforth\nbridle and tame the desert-bred.\n\nWaking from his brief reverie, the stranger turned and extended his\nhand, saying, in tones as low and sweet as a woman's,--\n\n\"Will you not welcome a wanderer back to his home?\"\n\nShe gave him the tips of her fingers, but the \"Imp of the Perverse\"\ndictated her answer,--\n\n\"As you saw fit to compare yourself, a few moments since, to certain\ncelebrated absentees, I am constrained to tell you that I happen to be\nneither Penelope nor Gretchen, nor yet the illustrious dog referred\nto.\"\n\nHe smiled good-humoredly, and replied,--\n\n\"I am not very sure that there is not a spice of Dame Van Winkle\nsomewhere in your nature. True, we are strangers, but I believe you\nare my sister's adopted child, and I hope you are glad to see her\nbrother at home once more. Jane is a dear kind link, who should make\nus at least good friends; for, if you are attached to her you will in\ntime learn to like me.\"\n\n\"I doubt it,--seeing that you resemble Miss Jane about as nearly as I\ndo the Grand Lama of Larissa, or the idol Bhadrinath. But, sir,\nalthough it is not my office to welcome you, I presume you have not\nforgotten the front door, and once more I ask, Will you walk in and\nmake yourself at home in your own house?\"\n\nAs she led the way to the steps, the arched gate at the end of the\navenue swung open, a carriage entered, and Salome retreated to her own\nroom, leaving unwitnessed the happy meeting between an aged, infirm\nsister, and long-absent brother.\n\nLocking the door to secure herself from intrusion, she drew a low\nrocking-chair to the hearth, where smouldered the embers of a dying\nfire, and dropping her face in her palms, stared abstractedly at the\nashes. As she swayed slowly to and fro, her lips parted and closed,\nher brows bent from their customary curves of beauty, and half\ninaudibly she muttered,--\n\n\"The sceptre is departing from Judah. My rule is well nigh ended; the\ninterregnum has been brief, and the old dynasty reigns once more.\nJust what I dreaded from the hour I heard he was coming home. I\nshall be reduced to a mere cipher, and made to realize my utter\ndependence,--and the iron will soon enter my soul. We paupers are\nadepts in the art of reading the countenance, and I have looked at\nthis Ulpian Grey long enough to know that I might as well bombard\nGibraltar with boiled peas as hope to conquer one of his whims or\nalter one of his purposes. There will be bitterness and strife between\nus. I shall wish him in his grave a thousand times before it closes\nover him,--and he, unless he is too good, will hate me cordially. I\ncannot and will not give up all my hopes and expectations, without a\nlong, fierce struggle.\"\n\nSalome Owen was the eldest of five children, who, by the death of both\nparents, had been thrown penniless upon the world, and found a\ntemporary asylum in the county poor-house. Her mother she remembered\nmerely as a feeble, fractious invalid; and her father, who had long\nbeen employed as superintendent of large mills belonging to Miss Jane\nGrey, had, after years of reckless intemperance, ended his wretched\ncareer in a fit of mania a potu. His death occurred at a season when\nMiss Grey was confined to her bed by an attack of rheumatism, which\nrendered her a <DW36> for the remainder of her days; but the first\nhours of her convalescence were spent in devising plans for the\neducation and maintenance of his helpless orphans. In the dusty,\ncheerless yard of the poor-house she had found the little group\nhuddled under a mulberry tree one hot July noon; and, sending the two\nyounger children to the orphan asylum in a neighboring town, she had\napprenticed one boy to a worthy carpenter, another to an eminent\nhorticulturist in a distant State; and Salome, the handsomest and\nbrightest of the flock, she carried to her own home as an adopted\nchild. Here, for four years, the girl had lived in peace and luxurious\nease, surrounded by all the elegances and refining associations which\nthough not inherent in are at the command of wealth; and so rapidly\nand gracefully had she fitted herself into the new social niche, that\nthe dark and stormy morning of her life had become only a dim and\nhideous recollection, that rarely lifted its hated visage above the\nsmooth and shining surface of the happy present.\n\nFortuitous circumstances constitute the moulds that shape the majority\nof human lives, and the hasty impress of an accident is too often\nregarded as the relentless decree of all-ordaining fate; while to the\nphilosophic anthropologist it might furnish matter for curious\nspeculation whether, if Attila and Alaric had chanced to find\nthemselves the pampered sons of some merchant prince,--some Rothschild\nor Peabody of the fifth century,--their campaigns had not been purely\nfiscal and bloodless, limited to the leaves of a ledger, while the\nnames of Goth and Hun had never crystallized into synonyms of havoc\nand ruin; or had Timour been trained to cabbage-raising and\nvine-dressing, whether he would not have lived in history as the great\nhorticulturist of Kesth, or the Diocletian of Samarcand, rather than\nthe Tartar tyrant and conqueror of the East? How many possible Howards\nhave swung at Tyburn? How many canonized and haloed heads have barely\nescaped the doom of Brinvilliers, and the tender mercies of Carnifex?\n\nAnalogous to that wonderful Gulf Stream, once a myth and still a\nmystery, the strange current of human existence, four score and\nten years long, bears each and all of us with a strong, steady sweep\naway from the tropic lands of sunny childhood, enamelled with verdure\nand gaudy with bloom, through the temperate regions of manhood and\nwomanhood, fruitful and harvest-hued, on to the frigid, lonely shores\nof dreary old age, snow-crowned and ice-veined; and individual\ndestinies seem to resemble the tangled drift on those broad\nbounding gulf-billows, driven hither and thither, strewn on barren\nbeaches, scattered over bleaching coral crags, stranded upon blue\nbergs,--precious germs from all climes and classes; some to be\nscorched under equatorial heats; some to perish by polar perils; a\nfew to take root and flourish and triumph, building imperishable\nland-marks; and many to stagnate in the long, inglorious rest of a\nSargasso Sea.\n\nFor all helpless human waifs in this surging ocean of time, there is\ncomfort in the knowledge that the fiercest storms toss their drift\nhighest; and one of these apparently savage waves of adversity had\nswept Salome Owen safely to an isle of palms and peace, where, under\nthe fostering rays of prosperity, the selfish and sordid elements of\nher character found rapid development.\n\nIn affectionate natures, family ties serve as cords to strangle\nselfishness; for, in large domestic circles, each member contributes a\nmoiety to swell the good of the whole--silently endures some trial,\nmakes some sacrifice, shares some sympathy and sunshine, hoards some\ngrief and gloom, and had Salome remained with her brothers and\nsisters, their continual claims on her time and attention would have\nhealthfully diverted thoughts that had long centred solely in self.\nFinding that fortune had temporarily sheathed in velvet the goad of\nnecessity, the girl's aspirations soared no higher than the\nmaintenance of her present easy and luxurious position, as a petted\ndependent on the affection and bounty of a weak but generous and\nlonely old lady. Having no other object near, upon which to lavish the\nlove and caresses that were stored in her heart, Miss Jane had turned\nfondly to Salome, and so earnestly endeavored to brighten her life,\nthat the latter felt assured she was selected as the heiress of that\nhouse and estate where she had dwelt so happily; and thus sanguine\nconcerning her future prospects, the strong will of the girl\ncompletely dominated the feebler and failing one of her benefactress,\nthrough whose fingers the reins of government slipped so gradually,\nthat she was unconscious of her virtual abdication.\n\nFrom this pleasant dream of a handsome heritage and life-long plenty,\nSalome had been rudely aroused by the unwelcome tidings that a young\nhalf-brother of Miss Jane was coming to reside under her roof; and\nprophetic fear whispered that the stranger would contest and divide\nher dominion. A surgeon in the United States navy, he had been absent\nfor five years in distant seas, and only resigned his commission in\nconsequence of letters which informed him of the feeble condition of\nhis only surviving relative. Those who have eaten the bread of charity\nlearn to interpret countenances with an unerring facility that\neclipses the vaunted skill of Lavater, and the girl's brief inspection\nof the face which would henceforth confront her daily, yielded little\nto dispel her gloomy forebodings. The sound of the tea-bell terminated\nher reverie, and rising, she walked slowly to the dining-room,\nthrowing her head as erect as possible, and compressing her mouth like\nsome gladiator summoned to the fatal arena of the Coliseum.\n\nThe dining-room was large and airy, with lofty wide windows, and\nneatly papered walls, where in numerous old-fashioned and quaintly\ncarved frames hung the ancestral portraits of the family. Although one\nwindow was open, and the mild air laden with the perfumed breath of\nspring, a bright wood fire flashed on the hearth, near which Miss Jane\nsat in her large, cushioned rocking-chair, resting her swollen\nslippered feet on a velvet stool, while her silver-mounted crutches\nleaned against the arm of her chair. An ugly and very diminutive brown\nterrier snarled and frisked on the rug, tormenting a staid and aged\nblack cat, who occasionally arched her back and showed her teeth; and\nDr. Grey stood leaning over his sister's chair, smoothing the soft\ngrizzled locks that clustered under the rich lace border of her cap.\nHe was talking of other days,--those of his boyhood, when, kneeling by\nthat hearth, she had pasted his kites, found strings for his tops,\nmade bags for his marbles, or bound up his bleeding hands, bruised in\nboyish sports; and, while he read from the fresher page of his memory\nthe blessed juvenile annals long since effaced from hers, a happy\nsmile lighted her withered face, and she put up one thin hand to pat\nthe brown and bearded cheek which nearly touched her head. To the\npretty young thing who had paused on the threshold, watching what\npassed, it seemed a peaceful picture, cosy and complete, needing no\nadjuncts, defying intruders; but Miss Jane caught a glimpse of the\nshrinking figure, and beckoned her to the fire-place.\n\n\"Salome, come shake hands with my sailor-boy, and tell him how glad we\nare to have his sunburnt face once more among us. Ulpian, this is my\ndear child Salome, who makes noise and sunshine enough in an otherwise\ndark and silent dreary house. Why, children, don't stand bowing at\neach other, like foreign ministers at court! Ulpian, you are to be a\nbrother to that child; so go and kiss her like a Christian, and let us\nhave no more state and ceremony.\"\n\n\"_Sans ceremonie_ we introduced ourselves this afternoon, under the\napple-tree, and I presume Salome will accept the assurance of my\nfriendly intentions and fraternal regard, and decline the seal which\nonly long acquaintance and perfect confidence could induce her to\npermit. Notwithstanding the very evident fact that she is not entirely\noverwhelmed with delight at my return, I gratefully acknowledge my\nindebtedness to one who has so largely contributed to my sister's\nhappiness, and shall avail myself of every opportunity to prove my\nappreciation of her devotion.\"\n\nDr. Grey stepped forward, took Salome's hand, and touched it lightly\nwith his lips, while the grave dignity of his manner forbade the\nthought that affectation of gallantry or idle persiflage suggested the\nwords or action.\n\nDisarmed by the quiet courtesy which she felt she had not merited, the\ngirl's ready wit and nimbly obedient tongue for once proved\ntreacherous; and, conscious that the flush was deepening on cheek and\nbrow, she moved to the oval table in the centre of the floor, and\nseated herself behind the massive silver urn.\n\n\"Ulpian, take your place yonder, at the foot, and excuse my absence\nfrom the table this first evening of your return. I always have my\nmeals here, close to the fire, and Salome presides in my place. Child,\nput no cream in his tea, but a bountiful share of sugar. You see, my\nboy, I have not grown too old to recollect your whims.\"\n\nAs he obeyed her, Salome was preparing to pour out the tea; but,\ncatching his eye, she paused, and Dr. Grey bowed his head on his hand,\nand solemnly and impressively asked a blessing, and offered up fervent\nthanks for the family reunion. In the somewhat fragmentary discourse\nthat ensued between brother and sister the orphan took no part; and, a\nhalf hour later, when the little party removed to the library and\nestablished themselves comfortably for the evening, Salome drew her\nchair close to the lamp, and, under pretence of examining a book of\nengravings, covertly studied the features and mien of the new-comer.\n\nHis quiet, low-toned conversation was of other lands and distant\nnations, and, while there was an entire absence of that ostentatious\nbraggardism and dropsical egotism which unfortunately attacks the\nmajority of travellers, his descriptions of foreign scenery were so\ngraceful and brilliant, that despite her ungracious determination and\npremeditated dislike, she became a fascinated listener; and, more than\nonce, found herself leaning forward to catch his words. Her own vivid\nfancy travelled with him over the lakes and isles, temples and\npalaces, he had visited; and, when the clock struck eleven, and a\nbrief silence succeeded, she started as from some delightful dream.\n\n\"Janet, shall we have prayers, or have I already kept you up too\nlate?\"\n\nDr. Grey stooped and pressed his lips to his sister's wrinkled\nforehead, and her voice faltered slightly, as she answered,--\n\n\"It is never too late to thank God for all his goodness, especially in\nbringing my dear boy safely back to me. Salome, get the large Bible\nfrom the cushion in the parlor.\"\n\nAs the orphan placed the book in Dr. Grey's hand it opened at the\nrecord of births, where on the wide page appeared only the name of\nUlpian Grey, and from the leaves fluttered a small bow of blue\nribbon.\n\nHe picked it up, and, considering it merely a book-mark, would have\nreplaced it, but Miss Jane exclaimed,--\n\n\"It is the blue knot that fastens that child's collar. Give it to her.\nShe lost it yesterday, and has searched the house for it. How came it\nin that old Bible, which I am sure has not been used for fifteen\nyears?\"\n\nWhatever solution of the mystery Salome might have deigned to offer,\nremained unuttered, for Dr. Grey kindly obviated the necessity of a\nreply by requesting her to bring him an additional candle from an\nadjoining room; and the superfluous celerity with which she started on\nthe errand called a twinkle to his eye and a half-smothered smile to\nhis lips. She felt assured that he was thoroughly cognizant of the\ncuriosity which had prompted her researches among the family records,\nand inferred that he had either no vanity to be flattered by such\ntrifles, or was dowered with too much generosity to evince any\ngratification at the discovery of an interest she would have\nvehemently disclaimed.\n\nIt was the first time she had ever bowed before the family altar, and,\nnotwithstanding her avowed aversion to \"Puritanic ceremonials and\nPharisaical practices,\" she was unexpectedly awed and deeply\nimpressed by the solemnity with which he conducted the brief services;\nwhile, despite her prejudice, his grave courtesy toward her, and the\nsubdued tenderness that marked his treatment of his sister, commanded\nher involuntary respect. When she stood before the mirror in her own\nroom, unbraiding her heavy hair, a dissatisfied expression robbed her\nfeatures of half their loveliness, and discontent ploughed distorting\nlines about the scarlet lips which muttered,--\n\n\"I wonder if, in one of his evil fits, my father sold and signed me\naway to Satan? I certainly am _bon gre mal gre_ in bondage to him;\nfor, from my inmost heart I hate 'good, pious, sanctified souls,' such\nas that marble man upstairs, who has come back to usurp my kingdom,\nand lord it over this heritage. After to-day a new regime. The\npotter's hands are fair and shapely, courteous and deft, but potter's\nhands nevertheless. Tough kneading he shall find it, and stiffer clay\nthan ever yet was moulded, or my name is not Salome Owen. After all,\nhow much better are we than the lower beasts of prey? In the race for\nriches there is but one alternative,--to devour, or be devoured;\nconsequently that was an immemorial and well tested rule in the\nwarfare that commenced when Adam and Eve found themselves shut out of\nEden. 'Each for himself,' etc., etc., etc. Since I must _ex\nnecessitate_ prey or be preyed upon, I shall waste no time in\ndeliberation.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nWhen fifty-two years old, Daniel Grey amassed a handsome fortune\nby speculating in certain gold and coal mine stocks, which not\nonly relieved him from the necessity of daily toil in his dusty\ncounting-room, but elevated him to that more than Braminical caste,\ndubbed in Mammon-parlance--capitalists; whose decrees outweigh\nlegislative statutes, and by feeling the pulse of stock-boards and\nall financial corporations, regulate the fiscal currents of the\nState. A few months subsequent to this sudden accession of wealth,\nhis meek and devoted wife--who had patiently shared all the trials\nand hardships of his early impecunious career, and brightened an\nhumble home which boasted no treasure comparable to her loving,\nunselfish heart,--was summoned to the enjoyment of a heritage beyond\nthe stars; and Daniel Grey, capitalist, found himself a florid\nhandsome widower, with two children, Enoch and Jane, to remind him\ncontinually of the pale wife over whose quiet ashes rose a costly\nmausoleum, where rare exotics nodded to each other across gilded\nslab and sculptured angels. That he profoundly mourned his loss no\ncharitable mind could doubt, notwithstanding the obstinate fact that\nere the violets had bloomed a twelvemonth over the dead mother of\nhis children he had provided them with one who certainly bore her\nname, usurped her precious privileges, walked in her footsteps, but\nwofully failed to fill her place.\n\nMrs. Daniel Grey, scarcely the senior of the step-daughter whose lips\nmost reluctantly framed the sacred word \"mother,\" was a fresh fair\nyoung thing, whose ideas of marriage extended no further than\ndiamonds, white satin, reception cards, and bridal presents; and whose\nregard for her worthy husband sought no surer basis than his\nbank-stock and insurance dividends. Dainty and bright, in tasteful and\ncostly apparel, the pretty child-wife flitted up and down in his house\nand over the serene surface of his life, touching no feeling of his\nnature so deeply as that colossal _parvenu_ vanity which exulted in\nthe possession of a graceful walking announcement of his ability to\nclothe in fine fabrics and expensive jewels.\n\nPerhaps the mildew that stained the ghastly gaunt angels who kept\nguard over the dust of the dead wife, extended yet further than the\nsilent territory over which sexton and mattock reigned, for one dreary\nDecember night, instead of nestling for a post-prandial nap among the\nvelvet cushions of his luxurious parlor, Daniel Grey, capitalist,\nslept his last sleep in a high-backed, comfortless chair before his\ndesk, where the confidential clerk found him next morning, with his\nrigid icy fingers thrust between the leaves of his check-book.\n\nAccording to the old Arab proverb,--\n\n  \"The black camel named Death kneeleth once at each door,\n  And a mortal must mount to return nevermore.\"\n\nAnd, past all peradventure, having borne away one member of the\nhousehold, the \"Last Carrier\" from force of habit hastens to perform\nthe same thankless service for the remainder;--thus ere summer\nsunshine streamed on the husband's grave, another yawned at its side,\nand a wreathed and fluted shaft shot up close to his mausoleum, to\ntell sympathizing friends and careless strangers that the second wife\nof Daniel Grey had been snatched away in the morning of life.\n\nHer infant son Ulpian was committed to the tender guardianship of his\nmaternal grandmother, in whose hands he remained until the close of\nhis fourth year, when her death necessitated his return to the home of\nhis only relatives, Enoch and Jane. At the request of his sister, the\nformer had sold the elegant new residence in a fashionable quarter of\nthe town, and removed to the old homestead and farm, hallowed by\nreminiscences of their mother, and invested with the magic attractions\nthat early association weaves about the spots frequented in youth.\n\nManifesting, even in boyhood, an unconquerable repugnance not only to\ncurriculum, but the monotonous routine of mercantile pursuits, Enoch\nsullenly forswore stock-jobbing and finance, and declared his\nintention of indulging his rural tastes and becoming a farmer. Fine\ncattle and poultry of all kinds, heavy wheat-crops, and well-stored\ncorn-cribs engrossed his thoughts, to the entire exclusion of abstract\naesthetic speculation, of operatic music, and Pre-Raphaelitism; while\nthe sight of one of his silky short-horned Ayrshires yielded him\ninfinitely more pleasure than the possession of all Rosa Bonheur's\nideals could possibly have done, and the soft billowy stretch of his\nfavorite clover-meadow was worth all the canvas that Claude or Poussin\nhad ever . While Enoch had cordially hated his fair blue-eyed\nyoung step-mother, not from any personal or individual grounds of\ngrievance, but simply and solely because she dared to occupy the\nhousehold niche, sanctified once and forever by his own meek\ngentle-toned mother, he nevertheless tenderly loved her baby-boy; and\nas Ulpian grew to manhood he became the idol, at whose shrine the\nbrother and sister offered their pure and most intense affection.\n\nNeither had married, and when the youngest of the household band\ncompleted his studies, and decided to accept a naval appointment, the\nconsternation and grief which the announcement produced at the\nhomestead, proved how essential the presence of the half-brother had\nbecome to the happiness of the sedate stolid Enoch, and equable\nunselfish Jane. But the desire to travel subordinated all other\nsentiments in Ulpian's nature, and he eagerly embarked for a cruise,\nfrom which he was recalled by tidings of the death of his brother.\n\nA brief sojourn at the homestead had sufficed to arrange the affairs\nof the carefully-managed estate, and the young surgeon returned to his\npost aboard ship, in distant oriental seas. The increasing infirmity\nof his sister had finally induced the resignation of his cherished\ncommission, and brought the man of thirty-five back to his home, where\nthe \"old familiar faces\" seemed to have vanished forever; and, in lieu\nthereof, legions of cold-eyed strangers carelessly confronted him.\n\nEmancipated from all restraint, and early consigned to the guidance of\nhis boyish caprices and immature judgment, Ulpian Grey's character had\nunfolded itself under circumstances peculiarly favorable for the\nfostering of selfishness and the development of idiosyncrasies. As a\nplant, unmolested by man and beast, germinates, expands, and freely\nand completely manifests all its inherent tendencies, whether\ndetrimental or beneficial to humanity, so Dr. Grey's matured manhood\nwas no distorted or discolored result of repeated educational\nexperiments, but a thoroughly normal efflorescence of an unbiassed\nhealthful nature.\n\nHabits of unwavering application and searching study, contracted in\ncollegiate cloisters, tightened their grasp upon him, as he wandered\naway from the quiet precincts of _Alma Mater_ and into the crowded\nnoisy campus of life; and even the gregarious and convivial manners\nprevalent aboard ship failed to divert his attention from the\nprosecution of scientific researches, or to <DW44> his rapid progress\nin classical scholarship.\n\nFor the treasures of knowledge thus patiently and indefatigably\ngarnered through a series of years, travel proved an invaluable polyglot\ncommentator, analyzing, comparing, annotating, and italicizing, and had\nconverted his mind into a vast, systematically arranged pictorial\nencyclopaedia of miscellaneous lore, embellished with delicate etchings,\nnoble engravings, and gorgeous illuminations,--a thesaurus where\n_savants_ might seek successfully for _data_, and whence artists\ncould derive grand types, and pure tender coloring.\n\nReverent and loving appreciation of the intrinsically \"true, good,\nand beautiful\" was part of the homage that his nature rendered to its\nCreator, and instead of flowering into a morbid and maudlin\nsentimentality which craves low-browed, long straight-nosed,\nundraped statuettes in every nook and corner,--or dwarfs the soul and\npins it to the surplice of some theologic _dogmata_ claiming\ninfallibility--or coffins the intellect in cramped, shallow,\npsychological categories,--it bore fruit in a wide-eyed, large-hearted,\nliberal-minded eclecticism, which, waging no crusade against the various\nSaladins of modern systems, quietly possessed itself of the really\nvaluable elements that constitute the basis of every ethical,\naesthetic, and scientific creed, which has for any length of time\nlevied black-mail on the credulity of mankind.\n\nBreadth of intellectual vision promotes moral and emotional\nexpansion--for true catholicity of mind manufactures charity in the\nheart; and toleration is the real mesmeric current which brings the\nextremes of humanity _en rapport_,--is the veritable ubiquitous\nSamaritan always provided with wine and oil for the bruised and\nhelpless, who are strewn along the highway of life; and those who\npenetrated beyond the polished surface of Dr. Grey's character,\nrealized that no tinge of cynicism, no affectation of contempt for his\ncountry and countrymen lurked in his heart, while erudition and\nforeign sojourning seemed only to have warmed and intensified his\nsympathy with all noble aims--his compassion for all grovelling ones.\n\nThat his compulsory return to the uneventful routine of life at the\nhomestead, involved a sacrifice which he would gladly have avoided, he\ndid not attempt to deny; but having invested a large amount of\nearnest, vigorous faith in the final conservatism of that much-abused\nmonster which the seditious army of the Disappointed anathematize as\n\"Bad Luck,\" he went to work contentedly in this new sphere of action,\nand waited patiently and trustfully for the slow grinding of the great\nmill of Compensation, into whose huge hopper Fate had unceremoniously\npoured all his plans.\n\nHis advent produced a very decided sensation not only in the quiet\nneighborhood in which the farm was located, but also in the adjacent\ntown where the memory of Daniel Grey's meteoric ascent to pecuniosity\nstill lingered in the minds of the oldest citizens, and pleasantly\npaved the way for a cordial reception of the fortunate son who\ninherited not only his mother's comeliness but his father's hoarded\nwealth.\n\nLiving in the middle of the nineteenth century, and in a hemisphere\ncompletely antipodal to that in which Utopia was situated, or\n\"Bensalem\" dreamed of, the appearance of a good-looking, well-educated,\naffluent bachelor could not fail to stir all gossipdom to its dreg;\nand society, ever tenderly concerned about the individual affairs of\nits prominent members, was all agog--busily arranging for the\n_ci-devant_ United States Surgeon a programme, than which he would\nsooner have undertaken the feats of Samson or the Avatars of Vishnu.\n\nHis published card, announcing the fact that he had permanently\nlocated in the city and was a patient candidate for the privilege of\nsetting fractured limbs and administering medicine, somewhat dashed\nthe expectations of many who conjected that the Grey estate could not\npossibly be worth the amount so long reputed, or the principal heir\nwould certainly not soil his fingers with pills and plasters, instead\nof sauntering and dawdling with librettos, lorgnettes, meerschaums,\nand curiously-carved canes cut in the Heb\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}
{"id": "pg19_009", "title": "The End of a Coil by Susan Warner", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27618", "tokens": 8192, "chars": 33065, "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Context:\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nDOLLY'S ARRIVAL.\n\nThe door stands open of a handsome house in Walnut Street--the Walnut\nStreet which belongs to the city of William Penn; and on the threshold\nstands a lady, with her hand up to her brows, shielding her eyes from\nthe light. She is watching to see what will come out of a carriage just\ndriving up to the curbstone. The carriage stops; there descends first\nthe figure of a handsome, very comfortable-looking gentleman. Mrs.\nEberstein's eyes pass over him very cursorily; she has seen him before;\nand there is hardly a curl on his handsome head which his wife does not\nknow by heart. What comes next? Ah, that is she!--the figure of the\nexpected one; and a little girl of some eleven years is helped\ncarefully out by Mr. Eberstein, and comes up the steps to the waiting\nand watching lady. A delicate little thing, delicate in frame and\nfeature alike, with a fair, childish face, framed in by loose light\nbrown curls, and a pair of those clear, grave, wise, light hazel eyes\nwhich have the power of looking so young and so spiritually old at\nonce. Those eyes are the first thing that Mrs. Eberstein sees, and they\nfascinate her already. Meanwhile kind arms are opened wide, and take\nthe little one in.\n\n\"Come at last, darling! And do you remember your Aunt Hal? and are you\nhalf as glad to see her as she is to see you?\" So Mrs. Eberstein gives\nher greeting, while she is drawing the child through the hall and into\nthe parlour; gives it between kisses.\n\n\"Why, no,\" said her husband, who had followed. \"Be reasonable, Harry.\nShe cannot be so glad to see you as we are to see her. She has just\ncome from a long stage-coach journey; and she is tired, and she is\nhungry; and she has left a world she knows, and has come to a world she\ndoesn't know; hey, Dolly? isn't it true? Tell your Aunt Hal to stop\nasking questions, and give you something to eat.\"\n\n\"I have come to a world I don't know,\" repeated the little girl by way\nof answer, turning her serious small face to her questioner, while Mrs.\nEberstein was busily taking off coat and hat and mufflers.\n\n\"Yes, that's what I say!\" returned Mr. Eberstein. \"How do you like the\nlook of it, hey?\"\n\n\"I wonder who is asking questions now!\" said Mrs. Eberstein. \"There,\ndarling! now you are at home.\"\n\nShe finished with another kiss; but, nevertheless, I think the feeling\nthat it was a strange world she had come to, was rather prominent in\nDolly. She suddenly stooped to a great Maltese cat that was lying on\nthe hearthrug, and I am afraid the eyes were glad of an excuse to get\nout of sight. She touched the cat's fur tenderly and somewhat\ndiligently.\n\n\"She won't hurt you,\" said her aunt. \"That is Mr. Eberstein's pet. Her\nname is Queen Mab.\"\n\n\"She don't look much like a fairy,\" was Dolly's comment. Indeed, Queen\nMab would outweigh most of her race, and was a magnificent specimen of\ngood feeding.\n\n\"You do,\" thought Mrs. Eberstein. Aloud she asked: \"What do you know\nabout fairies?\"\n\n\"Oh, I know they are only stories. I have read about them.\"\n\n\"Fairy tales, eh?\"\n\n\"No, not much fairy tales,\" said Dolly, now rising up from the cat. \"I\nhave read about them in 'Midsummer Night's Dream.'\"\n\n\"'Midsummer Night's Dream,' you <DW40>!\" exclaimed Mrs. Eberstein.\n\"Have you read that? And everything else you could lay hands on?\"\n\nShe took the child in her arms again as she spoke. Dolly gave a quiet\nassent.\n\n\"And they let you do just what you like at home? and read just what you\nlike?\"\n\nDolly smiled slightly at the obviousness of the course of action\nreferred to; but the next minute the smile was quenched in a mist of\ntears, and she hid her head on Mrs. Eberstein's shoulder. Kisses and\ncaresses of course followed, not successfully. At last Mr. Eberstein's\nrepeated suggestion that food, in the circumstances, would be very much\nin place, was acted upon. Supper was served in the next room, which did\nduty for a dining-room; and the little family gathered round a\nbountifully spread table. There were only those three; and, naturally,\nthe attention of the two elder was very much concentrated upon the\nthird new member of the party; although Mr. Eberstein was hungry and\nproved it. The more Mrs. Eberstein studied her new acquisition,\nhowever, the more incitement to study she found. .\n\nDolly was not like most children; one could see that immediately. Faces\nas pretty, and more pretty, could easily be found; the charm was not in\nmere flesh and blood, form or colour. Other children's faces are often\ninnocent too, and free from the shadow of life's burdens, as this was.\nNevertheless, it is not often, it is very rarely, that one sees the\nmingling of childish simplicity with that thoughtful, wise, spiritual\nlook into life, which met one in Dolly's serious hazel orbs; not often\nthat sweetness and character speak so early in the lines of the lips;\nutterly childish in their soft, free mobility, and yet revealing\ncontinually a trait of thoughtfulness or of strength, along with the\nhappy play of an unqualified tender disposition. \"You are lovely! you\nare lovely!\" was Mrs. Eberstein's inner cry; and she had to guard\nherself that the thought did not come to too open expression. There was\na delicate air of refinement also about the child, quite in keeping\nwith all the rest of her; a neat and noiseless handling of knife and\nfork, cup and saucer; and while Dolly was evidently hungry as well as\nher uncle, she took what was given to her in a thoroughly high-bred\nway; that is, she made neither too much nor too little of it.\n\nDoubtless all the while she was using her power of observation, as Mrs.\nEberstein was using hers, though the fact was not obtruded; for Dolly\nhad heart wants quite as urgent as body wants. What she saw was\nreassuring. With Mr. Eberstein she had already been several hours in\ncompany, having travelled with him from New York. She was convinced of\nhis genial kindness and steadfast honesty; all the lines of his\nhandsome face, and every movement of his somewhat ease-loving person,\nwere in harmony with that impression. Mrs. Eberstein was a fit mate for\nher husband. If Dolly had watched her a little anxiously at first, on\naccount of her livelier manner, she soon made out to her satisfaction\nthat nothing but kindness, large and bounteous, lodged behind her\naunt's face, and gave its character to her aunt's manner. She knew\nthose lively eyes were studying her; she knew just as well that nothing\nbut good would come of the study.\n\nThe meal over, Mrs. Eberstein took her niece upstairs to make her\nacquainted with her new quarters. It was a little room off the hall\nwhich had been destined for Dolly, opening out of her aunt's own; and\nit had been fitted up with careful affection. A small bedstead and\ndressing-table of walnut wood, a little chest of drawers, a little\nwardrobe; it was a wonder how so much could have been got in, but there\nwas room for all. And then there were red curtains and carpet, and on\nthe white spread a dainty little eider-down silk quilt; and on the\ndressing-table and chest of drawers pretty toilet napkins and\npincushion. It was a cosy little apartment as ever eleven years old\nneed delight in. Dolly forthwith hung up her hat and coat in the\nwardrobe; took brush and comb out of her travelling bag, and with\nsomewhat elaborate care made her hair smooth; as smooth, that is, as a\nloose confusion of curly locks allowed; then signified that she was\nready to go downstairs again. If Mrs. Eberstein had expected some\nremark upon her work, she was disappointed.\n\nIn the drawing-room, she drew the child to sit down upon her knee.\n\n\"Well, Dolly, what do you think you are going to do in Philadelphia?\"\n\n\"Go to school--they say.\"\n\n\"Who says so?\"\n\n\"Father says so, and mother.\"\n\n\"What do you think they want you to go to school for?\"\n\n\"I suppose that I may become like other people.\"\n\nMr. Eberstein burst out into a laugh. His wife's eyes went over to him\nadjuringly.\n\n\"Are you not like other people now, Dolly?\"\n\nThe child's sweet, thoughtful brown eyes were lifted to hers frankly,\nas she answered, \"I don't know, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Then why do you say that? or why do they say it?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Dolly again. \"I think they think so.\"\n\n\"I daresay they do,\" said Mrs. Eberstein; \"but if you were mine, I\nwould rather have you unlike other people.\"\n\n\"Why, Aunt Harry?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Eberstein; \"now you'll have to go on and tell.\" And\nDolly's eyes indeed looked expectant.\n\n\"I think I like you best just as you are.\"\n\nDolly's face curled all up into a smile at this; brow and eyes and\ncheeks and lips all spoke her sense of amusement; and stooping forward\na little at the same time, she laid a loving kiss upon her aunt's\nmouth, who was unspeakably delighted with this expression of\nconfidence. But then she repeated gravely--\n\n\"I think they want me changed.\"\n\n\"And pray, what are you going to do, with that purpose in view?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I am going to study, and learn things; a great many\nthings.\"\n\n\"I don't believe you are particularly ignorant for eleven years old.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do not know anything!\"\n\n\"Can you write a nice hand?\"\n\nDolly's face wrinkled up again with a sense of the comical. She gave an\nunhesitating affirmative answer.\n\n\"And you have read Shakespeare. What else, Dolly?\"\n\n\"Plutarch.\"\n\n\"'Plutarch's Lives'?\" said Mrs. Eberstein, while her husband again\nlaughed out aloud. \"Hush, Edward. Is it 'Plutarch's Lives,' my dear,\nthat you mean? Caesar, and Alexander, and Pompey?\"\n\nDolly nodded. \"And all the rest of them. I like them very much.\"\n\n\"But what is your favourite book?\"\n\n\"That!\" said Dolly.\n\n\"I have got a whole little bookcase upstairs full of the books I used\nto read when I was a little girl. We will look into it to-morrow, and\nsee what we can find. 'Plutarch's Lives' is not there.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do not want that,\" said Dolly, her eyes brightening. \"I have\nread it so much, I know it all.\"\n\n\"Come here,\" said Mr. Eberstein; \"your aunt has had you long enough;\ncome here, Dolly, and talk to me. Tell me which of those old fellows\nyou think was the best fellow?\"\n\n\"Of 'Plutarch's Lives'?\" said Dolly, accepting a position upon Mr.\nEberstein's knee now.\n\n\"Yes; the men that 'Plutarch's Lives' tell about. Whom do you like\nbest?\"\n\nDolly pondered, and then averred that she liked one for one thing and\nanother for another. There ensued a lively discussion between her and\nMr. Eberstein, in the course of which Dolly certainly brought to view\nsome power of discrimination and an unbiassed original judgment; at the\nsame time her manner retained the delicate quiet which characterised\nall that belonged to her. She held her own over against Mr. Eberstein,\nbut she held it with an exquisite poise of ladylike good breeding; and\nMr. Eberstein was charmed with her. The talk lasted until it was broken\nup by Mrs. Eberstein, who declared Dolly must go to rest.\n\nShe went up herself with the child, and attended to her little\narrangements; helped her undress; and when Dolly was fairly in bed,\nstood still looking at the bright little head on the pillow, thinking\nthat the brown eyes were very wide open for the circumstances.\n\n\"Are you very tired, darling?\" she asked.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Dolly. \"I guess not very.\"\n\n\"Sleepy?\"\n\n\"No, I am not sleepy yet. I am wide awake.\"\n\n\"Do you ever lie awake, after you have gone to bed?\"\n\n\"Not often. Sometimes.\"\n\n\"What makes you do it?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I get thinking sometimes.\"\n\n\"About what can such a <DW40> as you get thinking?\"\n\nDolly's face wrinkled up a little in amusement at this question. \"I see\na great many things to think about,\" she answered.\n\n\"It's too soon for you to begin that,\" said Mrs. Eberstein, shaking her\nhead. Then she dropped down on her knees by the bedside, so as to bring\nher face nearer the child's.\n\n\"Dolly, have you said your prayers?\" she asked softly.\n\nThe brown eyes seemed to lift their lids a little wider at that. \"What\ndo you mean, Aunt Harry?\" she replied.\n\n\"Do you never pray to the Lord Jesus before you go to sleep?\"\n\n\"I don't do it ever. I don't know anything about it.\"\n\nThe thrill that went over Mrs. Eberstein at this happily the little one\ndid not know. She went on very quietly in manner.\n\n\"Don't you know what prayer is?\"\n\n\"It is what people do in church, isn't it?\"\n\n\"What is it that people do in church?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said Dolly. \"I never thought about it.\"\n\n\"It is what you do whenever you ask your father or mother for anything.\nOnly that is prayer to your father or mother. This I mean is prayer to\nGod.\"\n\n\"We don't call it prayer, asking them anything,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"No, we do not call it so. But it is really the same thing. We call it\nprayer, when we speak to God.\"\n\n\"Why should I speak to God, Aunt Harry? I don't know how.\"\n\n\"Why He is our Father in heaven, Dolly. Wouldn't it be a strange thing\nif children never spoke to their father?\"\n\n\"But they can't, if they don't know him,\" said Dolly.\n\nHere followed a strange thing, which no doubt had mighty after-effects.\nMrs. Eberstein, who was already pretty well excited over the\nconversation, at these words broke down, burst into tears, and hid her\nface in the bedclothes. Dolly looked on in wondering awe, and an\ninstant apprehension that the question here was about something real.\nPresently she put out her hand and touched caressingly Mrs. Eberstein's\nhair, moved both by pity and curiosity to put an end to the tears and\nhave the talk begin again. Mrs. Eberstein lifted her face, seized the\nlittle hand and kissed it.\n\n\"You see, darling,\" she said, \"I want you to be God's own child.\"\n\n\"How can I?\"\n\n\"If you will trust Jesus and obey Him. All who belong to Him are God's\ndear children; and He loves them, and the Lord Jesus loves them, and He\ntakes care of them and teaches them, and makes them fit to be with Him\nand serve Him in glory by and by.\"\n\n\"But I don't know about Jesus,\" said Dolly again.\n\n\"Haven't you got a Bible?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Never read it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Never went to Sunday School?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Little Dolly, I am very glad you came to Philadelphia.\"\n\n\"Why, Aunt Harry?\"\n\n\"Because I love you so much!\" exclaimed Mrs. Eberstein, kissing the\nchild's sweet mouth. \"Why, Dolly, Jesus is the best, best friend we\nhave got; nobody loves us so much in the whole world; He gave his life\nfor us. And, then, He is the King of glory. He is everything that is\nloving, and true, and great, and good; 'the chiefest among ten\nthousand.'\"\n\n\"What did He give His life for?\" said Dolly, whose eyes were growing\nmore and more intent.\n\n\"To save our lives, dear.\"\n\n\"From what?\"\n\n\"Why, Dolly, you and I, and everybody, have broken God's beautiful law.\nThe punishment for that is death; not merely the death of the body, but\neverlasting separation from God and His love and His favour; that is\ndeath; living death. To save us from that, Jesus died Himself; He paid\nour debt; He died instead of us.\"\n\n\"Then is He dead?\" said Dolly awefully.\n\n\"He was dead; but He rose again, and now He lives, King over all. He\nwas God as well as man, so the grave could not hold Him. But He paid\nour debt, darling.\"\n\n\"You said, death was everlasting separation from God and good,\" said\nDolly very solemnly.\n\n\"For us, it would have been.\"\n\n\"But He did not die that way?\"\n\n\"He could not, for He is the glorious Son of God. He only tasted death\nfor us; that we might not drink the bitter cup to eternity.\"\n\n\"Aunt Harry,\" said Dolly, \"is all that true?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"When did He do that?\"\n\n\"It is almost nineteen hundred years ago. And since then, if any one\ntrusts His word and is willing to be His servant, Jesus loves him, and\nkeeps him, and saves him, and makes him blessed for ever.\"\n\n\"But why did He do that? what made Him?\"\n\n\"His great love for us.\"\n\n\"Us?\" Dolly repeated.\n\n\"Yes. You and me, and everybody. He just came to save that which was\nlost.\"\n\n\"I don't see how He can love me,\" said Dolly slowly. \"Why, I am a\nstranger to Him, Aunt Harry.\"\n\n\"Ah, you are no stranger! Oh yes, Dolly, He loves you dearly; and He\nknows all about you.\"\n\nDolly considered the matter a little, and also considered her aunt,\nwhose lips were quivering and whose eyes were dropping tears. With a\nvery serious face Dolly considered the matter: and came to a conclusion\nwith promptitude unusual in this one subject of all the world. She half\nrose up in her bed.\n\n\"Then I love Him,\" she said. \"I will love Him, too, Aunt Harry.\"\n\n\"Will you, my darling?\"\n\n\"But I do not know how to be His servant.\"\n\n\"Jesus will teach you Himself, if you ask Him.\"\n\n\"How will He teach me?\"\n\n\"He will make you understand His word, and let you know what pleases\nHim. He says, 'If ye love me, keep My commandments.'\"\n\n\"His commandments are in the Bible, aren't they?\"\n\n\"Certainly. You say you have not got a Bible?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then we will see about that to-morrow, the first thing we do. You\nshall have a Bible, and that will tell you about His commandments.\"\n\n\"Aunt Harry, I would like Him to know to-night that I love Him.\"\n\n\"Then tell Him so, dear.\"\n\n\"Can I?\"\n\n\"To be sure you can. Why not?\"\n\n\"I do not know how.\"\n\n\"Tell Him, Dolly, just as if the Lord Jesus were here present and you\ncould see Him. He is here, only you do not see Him; that is all the\ndifference Tell Him, Dolly, just as you would tell me; only remember\nthat you are speaking to the King. He would like to hear you say that.\"\n\n\"I ought to kneel down when I speak to Him, oughtn't I? People do in\nchurch.\"\n\n\"It is proper, when we can, to take a position of respect when we speak\nto the King; don't you think so?\"\n\nDolly shuffled herself up upon her knees in the bed, not regarding much\nthat Mrs. Eberstein threw a shawl round her shoulders; and waited a\nminute or two, looking intensely serious and considering. Then laying\nher hands involuntarily together, but with her eyes open, she spoke.\n\n\"O Lord Jesus,--Aunt Harry says you are here though I cannot see you.\nIf you are here, you can see, and you know that I love you; and I will\nbe your servant. I never knew about you before, or I would have done it\nbefore. Now I do. Please to teach me, for I do not know anything, that\nI may do everything that pleases you. I will not do anything that don't\nplease you. Amen.\"\n\nDolly waited a moment, then turned and put her arms round her aunt's\nneck and kissed her. \"Thank you!\"--she said earnestly; and then lay\ndown and arranged herself to sleep.\n\nMrs. Eberstein went downstairs and astonished her husband by a burst of\nhysterical weeping. He made anxious enquiries; and at last received an\naccount of the last half-hour.\n\n\"But, oh, Edward, what do you think?\" she concluded. \"Did you ever hear\nanything like that in your life? Do you think it can be genuine?\"\n\n\"Genuine what?\" demanded her husband.\n\n\"Why, I mean, can it be true religious conversion? This child knows\nnext to nothing; just that Jesus died out of love to her, to save\nher,--nothing more.\"\n\n\"And she has given her love back. Very logical and reasonable; and\nought not to be so uncommon.\"\n\n\"But it is uncommon, Edward. At least, people generally make a longer\nbusiness of it.\"\n\n\"In which they do not show their wisdom.\"\n\n\"No; but they do it. Edward, can it be that this child is so suddenly a\nChristian? Will it stand?\"\n\n\"Only time can show that. But Harry, all the cases,--almost all the\ncases reported in the New Testament are cases of sudden yielding. Just\nlook at it. John and Andrew took but a couple of hours or so to make up\ntheir minds. Nathanael did not apparently take more than two minutes\nafter he saw Christ. Lydia became a Christian at her first hearing the\ngood news; the eunuch made up his mind as quick. Why should not little\nDolly? The trouble is caused only by people's obstinate resistance.\"\n\n\"Then you think it may be true work?\"\n\n\"Of course I think so. This child is not an ordinary child, there is\nthat to be said.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mrs. Eberstein thoughtfully. \"Is she not peculiar? She is\nsuch a child; and yet there is such a wise, deep look in her brown\neyes. What pretty eyes they are! There is the oddest mixture of old and\nyoung in her I ever saw. She is going to be lovely, Edward!\"\n\n\"I think she is lovely now.\"\n\n\"Oh yes! but I mean, when she grows up. She will be very lovely, with\nthose spiritual eyes and that loose curly brown hair; if only she can\nbe kept as she is now.\"\n\n\"My dear, she cannot be that!\"\n\n\"Oh, you know what I mean, Edward. If she can be kept unspoiled;\nuntainted; unsophisticated; with that sort of mixture of wisdom and\nsimplicity which she has now. I wish we need not send her to school.\"\n\n\"We have no choice about that. And the Lord can keep His own. Let us\nask Him.\"\n\nThey knelt and did so; with some warm tears on Mrs. Eberstein's part,\nand great and warm earnestness in them both.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nCHRISTINA AND HER MOTHER.\n\nMrs. Eberstein watched during the next few days, to see, if she could,\nwhether the sudden resolve taking on Dolly's part that first evening\n\"meant anything,\" as she expressed it, or not. She remained in doubt.\nDolly was thoughtful certainly, and sweet certainly; \"but that don't\ntell,\" Mrs. Eberstein remarked; \"it is her characteristic.\" It was\nequally certain that she had attached herself with a trustful, clinging\naffection to the new friends whose house and hearts had received her.\nDolly's confidence was given to them fully and heartily from that very\nfirst day; and they saw that it was.\n\nNearly a week passed before the school-term began. Meanwhile Dolly was\ntaken about, in walks and drives, to see all that her friends thought\nwould interest her. Everything interested her, they found; and upon\nevery subject presented to her, her little head went to work; the\nresult of which was the putting of a question now and then, which\nafforded her guardians, perhaps, as much entertainment as the ground of\nthe question had given Dolly. These questions, however, were called\nforth most of all by the subject which had seized hold of Dolly's mind\nwith such force that first evening. Mrs. Eberstein had not forgotten\nher promise about the Bible. One of the first expeditions undertaken\nthe next day had been in search of one; successful, in the judgment of\nboth Dolly and her aunt; and since then the book was very often to be\nseen in Dolly's hands.\n\n\"What are you reading there, Dolly?\" Mr. Eberstein asked, corning in\none evening just before dinner. Dolly was on a low seat at the corner\nof the fireplace, reading by the shine of a fire of Liverpool coal,\nwhich threw warm lights all over the little figure. She looked up and\nsaid it was her Bible she was studying.\n\n\"You will put out your eyes.\"\n\n\"Oh no, Uncle Edward; the print is so good, and the fire makes such a\nnice blaze, I can see perfectly.\"\n\n\"And pray, what are you looking for, or what are you finding, in that\nbook, little one?\"\n\n\"I am looking for a great deal,--and I am finding a little,\" was\nDolly's reply.\n\n\"Different with me,\" said Mr. Eberstein with a short laugh. \"I\ngenerally find more in the Bible than I look for.\"\n\n\"What do you look for in it?\" said Dolly, raising her head which had\ngone down to the reading.\n\nMr. Eberstein laughed again.\n\n\"Truly, Dolly,\" he said, \"you have hit me there! I believe I often open\nthe Bible without looking for anything in particular.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that makes the difference,\" said Dolly, letting her eyes fall\nagain to her page.\n\n\"Perhaps it does; but, Dolly, I should very much like to know what you\nare looking for?\"\n\n\"I am looking to find out the will of God, Uncle Edward.\"\n\n\"Come here, my pet,\" said Mr. Eberstein, coaxing the little girl into\nhis arms and setting her on his knee. \"What do you want to find out the\nwill of God for? what about?\"\n\n\"About me.\"\n\n\"What do you want to know the will of God about you for?\"\n\n\"I want to do it, Uncle Edward.\"\n\n\"There couldn't be a better reason. Jesus says, 'He that hath My\ncommandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth Me.' Do you find\nwhat you seek?\"\n\n\"I find some,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Where were you reading just now?\"\n\n\"About Abraham.\"\n\n\"Abraham! What do you find in Abraham's life, may I ask, that tells you\nthe will of God about Dolly Copley? You are not called upon to leave\nyour country and go out into a strange land.\"\n\n\"No; not that. But God said to Abraham, 'Walk before Me, and be thou\nperfect.' And it puzzles me.\"\n\n\"What puzzles you?\"\n\n\"I don't see how I can 'walk before Him.'\"\n\n\"Dolly,--the Lord is here, here where we are, wherever we are.\"\n\n\"Yes. I know that.\"\n\n\"Then, if you know that and remember it, and do everything you do in\nHis presence, and feeling that it is in His presence, you will be\nwalking before Him; don't you see? Just as if Jesus were here again\nupon earth, and you were always with Him; only you do not see Him now.\nHe sees you.\"\n\n\"And 'be perfect'?\" said Dolly questioningly.\n\n\"Yes. That means, I think, don't try to serve two masters. If you love\nGod with all your heart, and give Him your whole life and service,--not\na part of it,--that is what the word to Abraham means, I think. A\nservant of God is a perfect servant, if he does all the will of God\nthat he knows, and as fast as he knows it. But you cannot do that of\nyourself, little Dolly.\"\n\n\"Why cannot I, if I want to?\"\n\n\"Why, because there come temptations, and there come difficulties; and\nyou will want to do something you like, and not what God likes; and you\nwill do it too, unless the Lord Jesus keeps fast hold of you and saves\nyou from making such a mistake. Only He can.\"\n\n\"Can He?\"\n\n\"Certainly He can.\"\n\n\"Will He?\"\n\n\"If you want Him to do it, and trust Him to do it, He will. He will\njust do all that you trust Him to do.\"\n\nDolly pondered. \"Will He do that because He loves me?\" she asked.\n\n\"Just for that reason, Dolly.\"\n\n\"Then He will do it,\" said Dolly confidently; \"for I will trust Him.\nWon't you show me where he says that, Uncle Edward?\"\n\nMr. Eberstein told Dolly to find Matt. xxi. 21. Dolly read eagerly--\n\n\"Jesus answered and said unto them, Verily I say unto you, If ye have\nfaith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done to the\nfig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed,\nand be thou cast into the sea, it shall be done. And all things\nwhatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.\"\n\nDolly read to herself, then looked up, eager and confident, for the\nnext reference.\n\n\"Turn to John xv. 7.\"\n\nAgain Dolly found and read, in silence--\n\n\"If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye\nwill, and it shall be done unto you.\"\n\n\"What next, Uncle Edward?\"\n\n\"Isn't that promise enough?\"\n\n\"Yes; but I thought you had more.\"\n\n\"There is a great deal more. Look out Thessalonians v. 23, 24.\"\n\nDolly read, slowly, aloud now--\n\n\"'And the very God of peace sanctify you wholly; and I pray God your\nwhole spirit and soul and body be preserved blameless unto the coming\nof our Lord Jesus Christ. Faithful is He that calleth you, who also\nwill do it.' That is beautiful, Uncle Edward!\"\n\n\"Do you want another? Find Jude, and read the 24th and 25th verses.\"\n\nWith some trouble Dolly found it.\n\n\"'Now unto Him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present\nyou faultless before the presence of His glory with exceeding joy, to\nthe only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and\npower, both now and ever. Amen.'\"\n\nDolly slipped off Mr. Eberstein's knee and retook her old place by the\nfire; where she sat turning from one passage to another of those she\nhad been reading. Mr. Eberstein watched her, how the ribbon markers of\nthe Bible were carefully laid in two of the places, and a couple of\nneat slips of paper prepared for the others.\n\n\"What have you been doing to-day, Dolly?\" he asked at length.\n\n\"We went to see the water works.\"\n\n\"Oh, you did! And what did you think of the water works?\"\n\n\"We went up to the top and walked about. Do the people in Philadelphia\nwant so much water as all that?\"\n\n\"They want a great deal more. The Fairmount works give only enough for\npart of the city.\"\n\n\"That is taking a great deal of trouble to get water.\"\n\n\"It would be worse trouble to do without it.\"\n\n\"But why don't people all live in the country, as we do at home? then\nthey would have water for nothing.\"\n\n\"Humph! That would answer, Dolly, if people were contented with water;\nthey all want wine. I mean, my child, that most people are not\nsatisfied with simple doings; and for anything more they must have\nmoney; and they can make money faster in cities. Therefore they build\ncities.\"\n\n\"Is _that_ what they build cities for?\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Largely. Not altogether. A great many things can be better done where\npeople are congregated together; it is for the convenience of trade and\nbusiness, in many kinds and in many ways. What have you been doing\nsince you came home from the water works?\"\n\n\"O Uncle Edward!\" said Dolly, suddenly rising now and coming to him,\n\"Aunt Harry has opened for me her old bookcase!\"\n\n\"What old bookcase? I didn't know she had an old bookcase.\"\n\n\"Oh yes; the one where she keeps the books she had when she was as old\nas I am.\"\n\n\"And as young, eh? Well, what is in that bookcase? is it a great find?\"\n\n\"O Uncle Edward, there is a great deal in it! It is wonderful. Books I\nnever saw, and they look so interesting!\"\n\n\"What, for instance? Something to rival Plutarch's Lives?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Dolly; \"you know I have not read them yet. There\nis 'Sandford and Merton;' I was reading in that, and I like it very\nmuch; and the 'Looking Glass' is another; and 'Rosamond' I am sure is\ninteresting. Oh there is a whole load of them.\"\n\n\n\"Well I am glad of it,\" said Mr. Eberstein. \"That is the right sort of\nstuff for your busy little brain; will not weigh too heavy. Now I\nsuppose you will be reading all the time you are in the house.\"\n\n\"Aunt Harry has begun to teach me to knit.\"\n\n\"Very good,\" said Mr. Eberstein. \"I believe in knitting too. That's\nsafe.\"\n\nThey went to dinner, and after dinner there was a further knitting\nlesson, in which Dolly seemed absorbed; nevertheless, before the\nevening was over she brought up a very different subject again.\n\n\"Aunt Harry,\" she began, in the midst of an arduous effort to get the\nloops of wool on her needles in the right relative condition,--\"does\nmother know about the Bible?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Eberstein, with a glance at her husband, \"she knows\nabout it, something.\"\n\n\"Then why did she never tell me anything about it?\"\n\nMrs. Eberstein hesitated.\n\n\"I suppose, Dolly, her thoughts were fuller of other things.\"\n\n\"But how _could_ they be?\" said the little one, laying her hands with\ntheir knitting work in her lap, and looking up.\n\nHer aunt did not answer.\n\n\"How could her thoughts be fuller of other things, if she knows the\nBible?\" Dolly urged.\n\n\"I don't think she really knows much of what is in the Bible,\" Mrs.\nEberstein said. \"She has never read it much.\"\n\n\"I don't think she knows about Jesus,\" Dolly went on gravely; \"for she\nnever told me; and she would if she had known, I think. Aunt Harriet, I\nthink _I_ ought to tell _her_ now.\"\n\n\"What would you tell her, my darling?\"\n\n\"Oh, I will tell her that I know Him and love Him; and I will tell her\nI have got a Bible, and some of the things I have found in it. I will\nask her to get one too, and read it. I don't believe she knows.\"\n\n\"The reason why a great many people do not know, Dolly, is, as your\nAunt Harry says, that they are so much taken up with other things.\"\n\n\"Then I think one ought to take care not to be too much taken up with\nother things,\" said Dolly very seriously.\n\n\"But you have got to be taken up with other things,\" Mr. Eberstein went\non. \"Here you are going to school in a few days; then your head will be\nfull of English and French, and your hands full of piano keys and harp\nstrings, from morning till night. How are you going to do?\"\n\nDolly looked at the speaker, came and placed herself on his knee again,\nand laid a hand on his shoulder; eyeing him steadily.\n\n\"Ought I not to go to school?\"\n\n\"Must!--else you cannot be the right sort of a woman, and do the right\nsort of work.\"\n\n\"How then, Uncle Edward? what shall I do?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you one thing, Dolly. Don't study and practise to get ahead\nof somebody else; but to please the King!\"\n\n\"The King--that is Jesus?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\nDolly nodded, in full agreement with the rule of action as thus stated;\npresently brought forward another idea.\n\n\"Will He care? Would it please Him to have me play on the piano, or\nlearn French and arithmetic?\"\n\n\"Dolly, the more you know, and the better you know it, the better\nservant you can be; you will have the more to use for Jesus.\"\n\n\"Can I use such things for Him? How?\"\n\n\"Many ways. He will show you how. Do you think an ignorant woman could\ndo as much in the world as an elegant, well-informed, accomplished\nwoman?\"\n\nDolly thought over this question, nodded as one who had come to an\nunderstanding of it, and went back to her knitting.\n\n\"What ever will become of that child,\" said Mrs. Eberstein an hour or\ntwo later, when she and her husband were alone. \"I am full of anxiety\nabout her.\"\n\n\"Then you are taking upon you the part of Providence.\"\n\n\"No, but, Edward, Dolly will have a history.\"\n\n\"So have we all,\"\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}