{"id": "pg19_000", "title": "Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ by Lew Wallace", "source_url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2145", "tokens": 16384, "chars": 67054, "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 in the face of the sun. There, in the centre\nof the earth, where the Indus, Ganges, and Brahmapootra rise to run\ntheir different courses; where mankind took up their first abode,\nand separated to replete the world, leaving Balk, the mother of\ncities, to attest the great fact; where Nature, gone back to its\nprimeval condition, and secure in its immensities, invites the sage\nand the exile, with promise of safety to the one and solitude to\nthe other--there I went to abide alone with God, praying, fasting,\nwaiting for death.\"\n\nAgain the voice fell, and the bony hands met in a fervent clasp.\n\n\"One night I walked by the shores of the lake, and spoke to the\nlistening silence, 'When will God come and claim his own? Is there\nto be no redemption?' Suddenly a light began to glow tremulously\nout on the water; soon a star arose, and moved towards me,\nand stood overhead. The brightness stunned me. While I lay upon\nthe ground, I heard a voice of infinite sweetness say, 'Thy love\nhath conquered. Blessed art thou, O son of India! The redemption\nis at hand. With two others, from far quarters of the earth,\nthou shalt see the Redeemer, and be a witness that he hath come.\nIn the morning arise, and go meet them; and put all thy trust in\nthe Spirit which shall guide thee.'\n\n\"And from that time the light has stayed with me; so I knew it\nwas the visible presence of the Spirit. In the morning I started\nto the world by the way I had come. In a cleft of the mountain I\nfound a stone of vast worth, which I sold in Hurdwar. By Lahore,\nand Cabool, and Yezd, I came to Ispahan. There I bought the\ncamel, and thence was led to Bagdad, not waiting for caravans.\nAlone I traveled, fearless, for the Spirit was with me, and is\nwith me yet. What glory is ours, O brethren! We are to see the\nRedeemer--to speak to him--to worship him! I am done.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nThe vivacious Greek broke forth in expressions of joy and\ncongratulations; after which the Egyptian said, with characteristic\ngravity:\n\n\"I salute you, my brother. You have suffered much, and I rejoice\nin your triumph. If you are both pleased to hear me, I will now\ntell you who I am, and how I came to be called. Wait for me a\nmoment.\"\n\nHe went out and tended the camels; coming back, he resumed his seat.\n\n\"Your words, brethren, were of the Spirit,\" he said, in commencement;\n\"and the Spirit gives me to understand them. You each spoke particularly\nof your countries; in that there was a great object, which I will explain;\nbut to make the interpretation complete, let me first speak of myself and\nmy people. I am Balthasar the Egyptian.\"\n\nThe last words were spoken quietly, but with so much dignity that\nboth listeners bowed to the speaker.\n\n\"There are many distinctions I might claim for my race,\" he continued;\n\"but I will content myself with one. History began with us. We were the\nfirst to perpetuate events by records kept. So we have no traditions;\nand instead of poetry, we offer you certainty. On the facades of\npalaces and temples, on obelisks, on the inner walls of tombs,\nwe wrote the names of our kings, and what they did; and to the\ndelicate papyri we intrusted the wisdom of our philosophers and\nthe secrets of our religion--all the secrets but one, whereof I\nwill presently speak. Older than the Vedas of Para-Brahm or the\nUp-Angas of Vyasa, O Melchior; older than the songs of Homer or\nthe metaphysics of Plato, O my Gaspar; older than the sacred\nbooks or kings of the people of China, or those of Siddartha,\nson of the beautiful Maya; older than the Genesis of Mosche the\nHebrew--oldest of human records are the writings of Menes, our\nfirst king.\" Pausing an instant, he fixed his large eves kindly\nupon the Greek, saying, \"In the youth of Hellas, who, O Gaspar,\nwere the teachers of her teachers?\"\n\nThe Greek bowed, smiling.\n\n\"By those records,\" Balthasar continued, \"we know that when the\nfathers came from the far East, from the region of the birth of the\nthree sacred rivers, from the centre of the earth--the Old Iran of\nwhich you spoke, O Melchior--came bringing with them the history\nof the world before the Flood, and of the Flood itself, as given\nto the Aryans by the sons of Noah, they taught God, the Creator\nand the Beginning, and the Soul, deathless as God. When the duty\nwhich calls us now is happily done, if you choose to go with me,\nI will show you the sacred library of our priesthood; among others,\nthe Book of the Dead, in which is the ritual to be observed by the\nsoul after Death has despatched it on its journey to judgment.\nThe ideas--God and the Immortal Soul--were borne to Mizraim over\nthe desert, and by him to the banks of the Nile. They were then\nin their purity, easy of understanding, as what God intends for\nour happiness always is; so, also, was the first worship--a song\nand a prayer natural to a soul joyous, hopeful, and in love with\nits Maker.\"\n\nHere the Greek threw up his hands, exclaiming, \"Oh! the light\ndeepens within me!\"\n\n\"And in me!\" said the Hindoo, with equal fervor.\n\nThe Egyptian regarded them benignantly, then went on, saying,\n\"Religion is merely the law which binds man to his Creator:\nin purity it has but these elements--God, the Soul, and their\nMutual Recognition; out of which, when put in practise,\nspring Worship, Love, and Reward. This law, like all others of\ndivine origin--like that, for instance, which binds the earth\nto the sun--was perfected in the beginning by its Author. Such,\nmy brothers, was the religion of the first family; such was the\nreligion of our father Mizraim, who could not have been blind to\nthe formula of creation, nowhere so discernible as in the first\nfaith and the earliest worship. Perfection is God; simplicity is\nperfection. The curse of curses is that men will not let truths\nlike these alone.\"\n\nHe stopped, as if considering in what manner to continue.\n\n\"Many nations have loved the sweet waters of the Nile,\" he said\nnext; \"the Ethiopian, the Pali-Putra, the Hebrew, the Assyrian,\nthe Persian, the Macedonian, the Roman--of whom all, except the\nHebrew, have at one time or another been its masters. So much\ncoming and going of peoples corrupted the old Mizraimic faith.\nThe Valley of Palms became a Valley of Gods. The Supreme One was\ndivided into eight, each personating a creative principle in nature,\nwith Ammon-Re at the head. Then Isis and Osiris, and their circle,\nrepresenting water, fire, air, and other forces, were invented.\nStill the multiplication went on until we had another order,\nsuggested by human qualities, such as strength, knowledge, love,\nand the like.\"\n\n\"In all which there was the old folly!\" cried the Greek,\nimpulsively. \"Only the things out of reach remain as they\ncame to us.\"\n\nThe Egyptian bowed, and proceeded:\n\n\"Yet a little further, O my brethren, a little further, before I\ncome to myself. What we go to will seem all the holier of comparison\nwith what is and has been. The records show that Mizraim found the\nNile in possession of the Ethiopians, who were spread thence through\nthe African desert; a people of rich, fantastic genius, wholly given\nto the worship of nature. The Poetic Persian sacrificed to the sun,\nas the completest image of Ormuzd, his God; the devout children of\nthe far East carved their deities out of wood and ivory; but the\nEthiopian, without writing, without books, without mechanical\nfaculty of any kind, quieted his soul by the worship of animals,\nbirds, and insects, holding the cat sacred to Re, the bull to\nIsis, the beetle to Pthah. A long struggle against their rude\nfaith ended in its adoption as the religion of the new empire.\nThen rose the mighty monuments that cumber the river-bank and the\ndesert--obelisk, labyrinth, pyramid, and tomb of king, blent with\ntomb of crocodile. Into such deep debasement, O brethren, the sons\nof the Aryan fell!\"\n\nHere, for the first time, the calmness of the Egyptian forsook\nhim: though his countenance remained impassive, his voice gave\nway.\n\n\"Do not too much despise my countrymen,\" he began again. \"They did\nnot all forget God. I said awhile ago, you may remember, that to\npapyri we intrusted all the secrets of our religion except one;\nof that I will now tell you. We had as king once a certain\nPharaoh, who lent himself to all manner of changes and additions.\nTo establish the new system, he strove to drive the old entirely\nout of mind. The Hebrews then dwelt with us as slaves. They clung\nto their God; and when the persecution became intolerable, they\nwere delivered in a manner never to be forgotten. I speak from\nthe records now. Mosche, himself a Hebrew, came to the palace,\nand demanded permission for the slaves, then millions in number,\nto leave the country. The demand was in the name of the Lord God\nof Israel. Pharaoh refused. Hear what followed. First, all the\nwater, that in the lakes and rivers, like that in the wells and\nvessels, turned to blood. Yet the monarch refused. Then frogs came\nup and covered all the land. Still he was firm. Then Mosche threw\nashes in the air, and a plague attacked the Egyptians. Next, all the\ncattle, except of the Hebrews, were struck dead. Locusts devoured\nthe green things of the valley. At noon the day was turned into a\ndarkness so thick that lamps would not burn. Finally, in the night\nall the first-born of the Egyptians died; not even Pharaoh's escaped.\nThen he yielded. But when the Hebrews were gone he followed them\nwith his army. At the last moment the sea was divided, so that the\nfugitives passed it dry-shod. When the pursuers drove in after them,\nthe waves rushed back and drowned horse, foot, charioteers, and king.\nYou spoke of revelation, my Gaspar--\"\n\nThe blue eyes of the Greek sparkled.\n\n\"I had the story from the Jew,\" he cried. \"You confirm it,\nO Balthasar!\"\n\n\"Yes, but through me Egypt speaks, not Mosche. I interpret the\nmarbles. The priests of that time wrote in their way what they\nwitnessed, and the revelation has lived. So I come to the one\nunrecorded secret. In my country, brethren, we have, from the\nday of the unfortunate Pharaoh, always had two religions--one\nprivate, the other public; one of many gods, practised by the\npeople; the other of one God, cherished only by the priesthood.\nRejoice with me, O brothers! All the trampling by the many nations,\nall the harrowing by kings, all the inventions of enemies, all the\nchanges of time, have been in vain. Like a seed under the mountains\nwaiting its hour, the glorious Truth has lived; and this--this is\nits day!\"\n\nThe wasted frame of the Hindoo trembled with delight, and the\nGreek cried aloud,\n\n\"It seems to me the very desert is singing.\"\n\nFrom a gurglet of water near-by the Egyptian took a draught,\nand proceeded:\n\n\"I was born at Alexandria, a prince and a priest, and had the\neducation usual to my class. But very early I became discontented.\nPart of the faith imposed was that after death upon the destruction\nof the body, the soul at once began its former progression from\nthe lowest up to humanity, the highest and last existence; and that\nwithout reference to conduct in the mortal life. When I heard of the\nPersian's Realm of Light, his Paradise across the bridge Chinevat,\nwhere only the good go, the thought haunted me; insomuch that in\nthe day, as in the night, I brooded over the comparative ideas\nEternal Transmigration and Eternal Life in Heaven. If, as my\nteacher taught, God was just, why was there no distinction\nbetween the good and the bad? At length it became clear to\nme, a certainty, a corollary of the law to which I reduced\npure religion, that death was only the point of separation at\nwhich the wicked are left or lost, and the faithful rise to a\nhigher life; not the nirvana of Buddha, or the negative rest of\nBrahma, O Melchior; nor the better condition in hell, which is all\nof Heaven allowed by the Olympic faith, O Gaspar; but life--life\nactive, joyous, everlasting--LIFE WITH GOD! The discovery led to\nanother inquiry. Why should the Truth be longer kept a secret for\nthe selfish solace of the priesthood? The reason for the suppression\nwas gone. Philosophy had at least brought us toleration. In Egypt we\nhad Rome instead of Rameses. One day, in the Brucheium, the most\nsplendid and crowded quarter of Alexandria, I arose and preached.\nThe East and West contributed to my audience. Students going to\nthe Library, priests from the Serapeion, idlers from the Museum,\npatrons of the race-course, countrymen from the Rhacotis--a\nmultitude--stopped to hear me. I preached God, the Soul, Right and\nWrong, and Heaven, the reward of a virtuous life. You, O Melchior,\nwere stoned; my auditors first wondered, then laughed. I tried\nagain; they pelted me with epigrams, covered my God with ridicule,\nand darkened my Heaven with mockery. Not to linger needlessly,\nI fell before them.\"\n\nThe Hindoo here drew a long sigh, as he said, \"The enemy of man\nis man, my brother.\"\n\nBalthasar lapsed into silence.\n\n\"I gave much thought to finding the cause of my failure, and at\nlast succeeded,\" he said, upon beginning again. \"Up the river,\na day's journey from the city, there is a village of herdsmen and\ngardeners. I took a boat and went there. In the evening I called\nthe people together, men and women, the poorest of the poor.\nI preached to them exactly as I had preached in the Brucheium.\nThey did not laugh. Next evening I spoke again, and they believed\nand rejoiced, and carried the news abroad. At the third meeting\na society was formed for prayer. I returned to the city then.\nDrifting down the river, under the stars, which never seemed so\nbright and so near, I evolved this lesson: To begin a reform,\ngo not into the places of the great and rich; go rather to those\nwhose cups of happiness are empty--to the poor and humble. And then\nI laid a plan and devoted my life. As a first step, I secured my\nvast property, so that the income would be certain, and always at\ncall for the relief of the suffering. From that day, O brethren,\nI travelled up and down the Nile, in the villages, and to all the\ntribes, preaching One God, a righteous life, and reward in Heaven.\nI have done good--it does not become me to say how much. I also\nknow that part of the world to be ripe for the reception of Him\nwe go to find.\"\n\nA flush suffused the swarthy cheek of the speaker; but he overcame\nthe feeling, and continued:\n\n\"The years so given, O my brothers, were troubled by one thought--When\nI was gone, what would become of the cause I had started? Was it to\nend with me? I had dreamed many times of organization as a fitting\ncrown for my work. To hide nothing from you, I had tried to effect\nit, and failed. Brethren, the world is now in the condition that,\nto restore the old Mizraimic faith, the reformer must have a more\nthan human sanction; he must not merely come in God's name, he must\nhave the proofs subject to his word; he must demonstrate all he says,\neven God. So preoccupied is the mind with myths and systems; so much\ndo false deities crowd every place--earth, air, sky; so have they\nbecome of everything a part, that return to the first religion can\nonly be along bloody paths, through fields of persecution; that is\nto say, the converts must be willing to die rather than recant.\nAnd who in this age can carry the faith of men to such a point\nbut God himself? To redeem the race--I do not mean to destroy\nit--to REDEEM the race, he must make himself once more manifest;\nHE MUST COME IN PERSON.\"\n\nIntense emotion seized the three.\n\n\"Are we not going to find him?\" exclaimed the Greek.\n\n\"You understand why I failed in the attempt to organize,\" said the\nEgyptian, when the spell was past. \"I had not the sanction. To know\nthat my work must be lost made me intolerably wretched. I believed\nin prayer, and to make my appeals pure and strong, like you,\nmy brethren, I went out of the beaten ways, I went where man\nhad not been, where only God was. Above the fifth cataract,\nabove the meeting of rivers in Sennar, up the Bahr el Abiad,\ninto the far unknown of Africa, I went. There, in the morning,\na mountain blue as the sky flings a cooling shadow wide over the\nwestern desert, and, with its cascades of melted snow, feeds a\nbroad lake nestling at its base on the east. The lake is the\nmother of the great river. For a year and more the mountain gave\nme a home. The fruit of the palm fed my body, prayer my spirit.\nOne night I walked in the orchard close by the little sea. 'The world\nis dying. When wilt thou come? Why may I not see the redemption,\nO God?' So I prayed. The glassy water was sparkling with stars.\nOne of them seemed to leave its place, and rise to the surface,\nwhere it became a brilliancy burning to the eyes. Then it moved\ntowards me, and stood over my head, apparently in hand's reach.\nI fell down and hid my face. A voice, not of the earth, said,\n'Thy good works have conquered. Blessed art thou, O son of Mizraim!\nThe redemption cometh. With two others, from the remotenesses of\nthe world, thou shalt see the Saviour, and testify for him. In the\nmorning arise, and go meet them. And when ye have all come to the\nholy city of Jerusalem, ask of the people, Where is he that is born\nKing of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the East and are\nsent to worship him. Put all thy trust in the Spirit which will\nguide thee.'\n\n\"And the light became an inward illumination not to be doubted,\nand has stayed with me, a governor and a guide. It led me down the\nriver to Memphis, where I made ready for the desert. I bought my\ncamel, and came hither without rest, by way of Suez and Kufileh,\nand up through the lands of Moab and Ammon. God is with us, O my\nbrethren!\"\n\nHe paused, and thereupon, with a prompting not their own, they all\narose, and looked at each other.\n\n\"I said there was a purpose in the particularity with which we\ndescribed our people and their histories,\" so the Egyptian\nproceeded. \"He we go to find was called 'King of the Jews;'\nby that name we are bidden to ask for him. But, now that we\nhave met, and heard from each other, we may know him to be\nthe Redeemer, not of the Jews alone, but of all the nations\nof the earth. The patriarch who survived the Flood had with him\nthree sons, and their families, by whom the world was repeopled.\nFrom the old Aryana-Vaejo, the well-remembered Region of Delight in\nthe heart of Asia, they parted. India and the far East received the\nchildren of the first; the descendant of the youngest, through the\nNorth, streamed into Europe; those of the second overflowed the\ndeserts about the Red Sea, passing into Africa; and though most\nof the latter are yet dwellers in shifting tents, some of them\nbecame builders along the Nile.\"\n\nBy a simultaneous impulse the three joined hands.\n\n\"Could anything be more divinely ordered?\" Balthasar continued.\n\"When we have found the Lord, the brothers, and all the generations\nthat have succeeded them, will kneel to him in homage with us. And\nwhen we part to go our separate ways, the world will have learned\na new lesson--that Heaven may be won, not by the sword, not by\nhuman wisdom, but by Faith, Love, and Good Works.\"\n\nThere was silence, broken by sighs and sanctified with tears;\nfor the joy that filled them might not be stayed. It was the\nunspeakable joy of souls on the shores of the River of Life,\nresting with the Redeemed in God's presence.\n\nPresently their hands fell apart, and together they went out of\nthe tent. The desert was still as the sky. The sun was sinking\nfast. The camels slept.\n\nA little while after, the tent was struck, and, with the remains of\nthe repast, restored to the cot; then the friends mounted, and set\nout single file, led by the Egyptian. Their course was due west,\ninto the chilly night. The camels swung forward in steady trot,\nkeeping the line and the intervals so exactly that those following\nseemed to tread in the tracks of the leader. The riders spoke not\nonce.\n\nBy-and-by the moon came up. And as the three tall white figures sped,\nwith soundless tread, through the opalescent light, they appeared like\nspecters flying from hateful shadows. Suddenly, in the air before\nthem, not farther up than a low hill-top flared a lambent flame;\nas they looked at it, the apparition contracted into a focus of\ndazzling lustre. Their hearts beat fast; their souls thrilled;\nand they shouted as with one voice, \"The Star! the Star! God is\nwith us!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nIn an aperture of the western wall of Jerusalem hang the \"oaken\nvalves\" called the Bethlehem or Joppa Gate. The area outside of\nthem is one of the notable places of the city. Long before David\ncoveted Zion there was a citadel there. When at last the son of\nJesse ousted the Jebusite, and began to build, the site of the\ncitadel became the northwest corner of the new wall, defended by\na tower much more imposing than the old one. The location of the\ngate, however, was not disturbed, for the reasons, most likely,\nthat the roads which met and merged in front of it could not\nwell be transferred to any other point, while the area outside\nhad become a recognized market-place. In Solomon's day there was\ngreat traffic at the locality, shared in by traders from Egypt\nand the rich dealers from Tyre and Sidon. Nearly three thousand\nyears have passed, and yet a kind of commerce clings to the spot.\nA pilgrim wanting a pin or a pistol, a cucumber or a camel, a house\nor a horse, a loan or a lentil, a date or a dragoman, a melon or\na man, a dove or a donkey, has only to inquire for the article at\nthe Joppa Gate. Sometimes the scene is quite animated, and then\nit suggests, What a place the old market must have been in the\ndays of Herod the Builder! And to that period and that market\nthe reader is now to be transferred.\n\nFollowing the Hebrew system, the meeting of the wise men described\nin the preceding chapters took place in the afternoon of the\ntwenty-fifth day of the third month of the year; that is say,\non the twenty-fifth day of December. The year was the second of\nthe 193d Olympiad, or the 747th of Rome; the sixty-seventh of\nHerod the Great, and the thirty-fifth of his reign; the fourth\nbefore the beginning of the Christian era. The hours of the day,\nby Judean custom, begin with the sun, the first hour being the\nfirst after sunrise; so, to be precise; the market at the Joppa\nGate during the first hour of the day stated was in full session,\nand very lively. The massive valves had been wide open since dawn.\nBusiness, always aggressive, had pushed through the arched entrance\ninto a narrow lane and court, which, passing by the walls of\nthe great tower, conducted on into the city. As Jerusalem is\nin the hill country, the morning air on this occasion was not a\nlittle crisp. The rays of the sun, with their promise of warmth,\nlingered provokingly far up on the battlements and turrets of the\ngreat piles about, down from which fell the crooning of pigeons\nand the whir of the flocks coming and going.\n\nAs a passing acquaintance with the people of the Holy City, strangers\nas well as residents, will be necessary to an understanding of some\nof the pages which follow, it will be well to stop at the gate and\npass the scene in review. Better opportunity will not offer to get\nsight of the populace who will afterwhile go forward in a mood very\ndifferent from that which now possesses them.\n\nThe scene is at first one of utter confusion--confusion of action,\nsounds, colors, and things. It is especially so in the lane and court.\nThe ground there is paved with broad unshaped flags, from which each\ncry and jar and hoof-stamp arises to swell the medley that rings\nand roars up between the solid impending walls. A little mixing\nwith the throng, however, a little familiarity with the business\ngoing on, will make analysis possible.\n\nHere stands a donkey, dozing under panniers full of lentils,\nbeans, onions, and cucumbers, brought fresh from the gardens\nand terraces of Galilee. When not engaged in serving customers,\nthe master, in a voice which only the initiated can understand,\ncries his stock. Nothing can be simpler than his costume--sandals,\nand an unbleached, undyed blanket, crossed over one shoulder\nand girt round the waist. Near-by, and far more imposing and\ngrotesque, though scarcely as patient as the donkey, kneels a\ncamel, raw-boned, rough, and gray, with long shaggy tufts of\nfox- hair under its throat, neck, and body, and a load\nof boxes and baskets curiously arranged upon an enormous saddle.\nThe owner is an Egyptian, small, lithe, and of a complexion which\nhas borrowed a good deal from the dust of the roads and the\nsands of the desert. He wears a faded tarbooshe, a loose gown,\nsleeveless, unbelted, and dropping from the neck to the knee.\nHis feet are bare. The camel, restless under the load, groans and\noccasionally shows his teeth; but the man paces indifferently to\nand fro, holding the driving-strap, and all the time advertising\nhis fruits fresh from the orchards of the Kedron--grapes, dates,\nfigs, apples, and pomegranates.\n\nAt the corner where the lane opens out into the court, some women\nsit with their backs against the gray stones of the wall. Their dress\nis that common to the humbler classes of the country--a linen\nfrock extending the full length of the person, loosely gathered\nat the waist, and a veil or wimple broad enough, after covering\nthe head, to wrap the shoulders. Their merchandise is contained\nin a number of earthen jars, such as are still used in the East for\nbringing water from the wells, and some leathern bottles. Among the\njars and bottles, rolling upon the stony floor, regardless of the\ncrowd and cold, often in danger but never hurt, play half a dozen\nhalf-naked children, their brown bodies, jetty eyes, and thick\nblack hair attesting the blood of Israel. Sometimes, from under\nthe wimples, the mothers look up, and in the vernacular modestly\nbespeak their trade: in the bottles \"honey of grapes,\" in the\njars \"strong drink.\" Their entreaties are usually lost in the\ngeneral uproar, and they fare illy against the many competitors:\nbrawny fellows with bare legs, dirty tunics, and long beards,\ngoing about with bottles lashed to their backs, and shouting\n\"Honey of wine! Grapes of En-Gedi!\" When a customer halts one\nof them, round comes the bottle, and, upon lifting the thumb\nfrom the nozzle, out into the ready cup gushes the deep-red\nblood of the luscious berry.\n\nScarcely less blatant are the dealers in birds--doves, ducks, and\nfrequently the singing bulbul, or nightingale, most frequently\npigeons; and buyers, receiving them from the nets, seldom fail\nto think of the perilous life of the catchers, bold climbers\nof the cliffs; now hanging with hand and foot to the face of\nthe crag, now swinging in a basket far down the mountain fissure.\n\nBlent with peddlers of jewelry--sharp men cloaked in scarlet\nand blue, top-heavy under prodigious white turbans, and fully\nconscious of the power there is in the lustre of a ribbon and\nthe incisive gleam of gold, whether in bracelet or necklace,\nor in rings for the finger or the nose--and with peddlers of\nhousehold utensils, and with dealers in wearing-apparel, and with\nretailers of unguents for anointing the person, and with hucksters\nof all articles, fanciful as well as of need, hither and thither,\ntugging at halters and ropes, now screaming, now coaxing, toil the\nvenders of animals--donkeys, horses, calves, sheep, bleating kids,\nand awkward camels; animals of every kind except the outlawed swine.\nAll these are there; not singly, as described, but many times repeated;\nnot in one place, but everywhere in the market.\n\nTurning from this scene in the lane and court, this glance at\nthe sellers and their commodities, the reader has need to give\nattention, in the next place, to visitors and buyers, for which\nthe best studies will be found outside the gates, where the\nspectacle is quite as varied and animated; indeed, it may be\nmore so, for there are superadded the effects of tent, booth,\nand sook, greater space, larger crowd, more unqualified freedom,\nand the glory of the Eastern sunshine.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nLet us take our stand by the gate, just out of the edge of the\ncurrents--one flowing in, the other out--and use our eyes and\nears awhile.\n\nIn good time! Here come two men of a most noteworthy class.\n\n\"Gods! How cold it is!\" says one of them, a powerful figure in armor;\non his head a brazen helmet, on his body a shining breastplate and\nskirts of mail. \"How cold it is! Dost thou remember, my Caius,\nthat vault in the Comitium at home which the flamens say is the\nentrance to the lower world? By Pluto! I could stand there this\nmorning, long enough at least to get warm again!\"\n\nThe party addressed drops the hood of his military cloak, leaving\nbare his head and face, and replies, with an ironic smile, \"The\nhelmets of the legions which conquered Mark Antony were full of\nGallic snow; but thou--ah, my poor friend!--thou hast just come\nfrom Egypt, bringing its summer in thy blood.\"\n\nAnd with the last word they disappear through the entrance.\nThough they had been silent, the armor and the sturdy step\nwould have published them Roman soldiers.\n\nFrom the throng a Jew comes next, meager of frame, round-shouldered,\nand wearing a coarse brown robe; over his eyes and face, and down\nhis back, hangs a mat of long, uncombed hair. He is alone. Those who\nmeet him laugh, if they do not worse; for he is a Nazarite, one of\na despised sect which rejects the books of Moses, devotes itself to\nabhorred vows, and goes unshorn while the vows endure.\n\nAs we watch his retiring figure, suddenly there is a commotion in\nthe crowd, a parting quickly to the right and left, with exclamations\nsharp and decisive. Then the cause comes--a man, Hebrew in feature\nand dress. The mantle of snow-white linen, held to his head by\ncords of yellow silk, flows free over his shoulders; his robe\nis richly embroidered, a red sash with fringes of gold wraps his\nwaist several times. His demeanor is calm; he even smiles upon\nthose who, with such rude haste, make room for him. A leper? No,\nhe is only a Samaritan. The shrinking crowd, if asked, would say\nhe is a mongrel--an Assyrian--whose touch of the robe is pollution;\nfrom whom, consequently, an Israelite, though dying, might not\naccept life. In fact, the feud is not of blood. When David set\nhis throne here on Mount Zion, with only Judah to support him,\nthe ten tribes betook themselves to Shechem, a city much older,\nand, at that date, infinitely richer in holy memories. The final\nunion of the tribes did not settle the dispute thus begun.\nThe Samaritans clung to their tabernacle on Gerizim, and,\nwhile maintaining its superior sanctity, laughed at the irate\ndoctors in Jerusalem. Time brought no assuagement of the hate.\nUnder Herod, conversion to the faith was open to all the world\nexcept the Samaritans; they alone were absolutely and forever\nshut out from communion with Jews.\n\nAs the Samaritan goes in under the arch of the gate, out come three\nmen so unlike all whom we have yet seen that they fix our gaze,\nwhether we will or not. They are of unusual stature and immense\nbrawn; their eyes are blue, and so fair is their complexion that\nthe blood shines through the skin like blue pencilling; their hair is\nlight and short; their heads, small and round, rest squarely upon necks\ncolumnar as the trunks of trees. Woollen tunics, open at the breast,\nsleeveless and loosely girt, drape their bodies, leaving bare arms\nand legs of such development that they at once suggest the arena;\nand when thereto we add their careless, confident, insolent manner,\nwe cease to wonder that the people give them way, and stop after they\nhave passed to look at them again. They are gladiators--wrestlers,\nrunners, boxers, swordsmen; professionals unknown in Judea before\nthe coming of the Roman; fellows who, what time they are not\nin training, may be seen strolling through the king's gardens\nor sitting with the guards at the palace gates; or possibly they\nare visitors from Caesarea, Sebaste, or Jericho; in which Herod,\nmore Greek than Jew, and with all a Roman's love of games and\nbloody spectacles, has built vast theaters, and now keeps schools\nof fighting-men, drawn, as is the custom, from the Gallic provinces\nor the Slavic tribes on the Danube.\n\n\"By Bacchus!\" says one of them, drawing his clenched hand to\nhis shoulder, \"their skulls are not thicker than eggshells.\"\n\nThe brutal look which goes with the gesture disgusts us, and we\nturn happily to something more pleasant.\n\nOpposite us is a fruit-stand. The proprietor has a bald head,\na long face, and a nose like the beak of a hawk. He sits\nupon a carpet spread upon the dust; the wall is at his back;\noverhead hangs a scant curtain, around him, within hand's reach\nand arranged upon little stools, lie osier boxes full of almonds,\ngrapes, figs, and pomegranates. To him now comes one at whom we\ncannot help looking, though for another reason than that which\nfixed our eyes upon the gladiators; he is really beautiful--a\nbeautiful Greek. Around his temples, holding the waving hair,\nis a crown of myrtle, to which still cling the pale flowers and\nhalf ripe berries. His tunic, scarlet in color, is of the softest\nwoollen fabric; below the girdle of buff leather, which is clasped\nin front by a fantastic device of shining gold, the skirt drops to\nthe knee in folds heavy with embroidery of the same royal metal;\na scarf, also woollen, and of mixed white and yellow, crosses\nhis throat and falls trailing at his back; his arms and legs,\nwhere exposed, are white as ivory, and of the polish impossible\nexcept by perfect treatment with bath, oil, brushes, and pincers.\n\nThe dealer, keeping his seat, bends forward, and throws his hands\nup until\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": 16384, "chars": 69793, "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 was grim and heavy with ledgers, inks, and variegated specimens of\nsteam-printing.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTHREE.\n\nIn the wedge-shaped doorway between the windows stood two men, one\nmiddle-aged and one old, one bareheaded and the other with a beaver hat,\nengaged in conversation.  They were talking easily, pleasantly, with\nfree gestures, the younger looking down in deferential smiles at the\nelder, and the elder looking up benignantly at the younger.  You could\nsee that, having begun with a business matter, they had quitted it for a\ntopic of the hour.  But business none the less went forward, the shop\nfunctioned, the presses behind the shop were being driven by steam as\nadvertised; a customer emerged, and was curtly nodded at by the\nproprietor as he squeezed past; a girl with a small flannel apron over a\nlarge cotton apron went timidly into the shop.  The trickling, calm\ncommerce of a provincial town was proceeding, bit being added to bit and\nitem to item, until at the week's end a series of apparent nothings had\nswollen into the livelihood of near half a score of people.  And nobody\nperceived how interesting it was, this interchange of activities, this\nebb and flow of money, this sluggish rise and fall of reputations and\nfortunes, stretching out of one century into another and towards a\nthird!  Printing had been done at that corner, though not by steam,\nsince the time of the French Revolution.  Bibles and illustrated herbals\nhad been laboriously produced by hand at that corner, and hawked on the\nbacks of asses all over the county; and nobody heard romance in the\npuffing of the hidden steam-engine multiplying catalogues and billheads\non the self-same spot at the rate of hundreds an hour.\n\nThe younger and bigger of the two men chatting in the doorway was Darius\nClayhanger, Edwin's father, and the first printer to introduce steam\ninto Bursley.  His age was then under forty-five, but he looked more.\nHe was dressed in black, with an ample shirt-front and a narrow black\ncravat tied in an angular bow; the wristbands were almost tight on the\nwrists, and, owing to the shortness of the alpaca coat-sleeves, they\nwere very visible even as Darius Clayhanger stood, with his two hands\ndeep in the horizontal pockets of his `full-fall' trousers.  They were\nnot precisely dirty, these wristbands, nor was the shirt-front, nor the\nturned-down pointed collar, but all the linen looked as though it would\nscarcely be wearable the next day.  Clayhanger's linen invariably looked\nlike that, not dirty and not clean; and further, he appeared to wear\neternally the same suit, ever on the point of being done for and never\nbeing done for.  The trousers always had marked transverse creases; the\nwaistcoat always showed shiningly the outline of every article in the\npockets thereof, and it always had a few stains down the front (and\nnever more than a few), and the lowest button insecure.  The coat,\nfaintly discoloured round the collar and fretted at the cuffs, fitted\nhim easily and loosely like the character of an old crony; it was as if\nit had grown up with him, and had expanded with his girth.  His head was\na little bald on the top, but there was still a great deal of mixed\nbrown and greyish hair at the back and the sides, and the moustache,\nhanging straight down with an effect recalling the mouth of a seal, was\nplenteous and defiant--a moustache of character, contradicting the full\nplacidity of the badly shaved chin.  Darius Clayhanger had a habit, when\nreflective or fierce, of biting with his upper teeth as far down as he\ncould on the lower lip; this trick added emphasis to the moustache.  He\nstood, his feet in their clumsy boots planted firmly about sixteen\ninches apart, his elbows sticking out, and his head bent sideways,\nlistening to and answering his companion with mien now eager, now\nroguish, now distinctly respectful.\n\nThe older man, Mr Shushions, was apparently very old.  He was one of\nthose men of whom one says in conclusion that they are very old.  He\nseemed to be so fully occupied all the time in conducting those physical\noperations which we perform without thinking of them, that each in his\ncase became a feat.  He balanced himself on his legs with conscious\ncraft; he directed carefully his shaking and gnarled hand to his beard\nin order to stroke it.  When he collected his thoughts into a sentence\nand uttered it in his weak, quavering voice, he did something wonderful;\nhe listened closely, as though to an imperfectly acquired foreign\nlanguage; and when he was not otherwise employed, he gave attention to\nthe serious business of breathing.  He wore a black silk stock, in a\nstyle even more antique than his remarkable headgear, and his trousers\nwere very tight.  He had survived into another and a more fortunate age\nthan his own.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nFOUR.\n\nEdwin, his heavy bag on his shoulders, found the doorway blocked by\nthese two.  He hesitated with a diffident charming smile, feeling, as he\noften did in front of his father, that he ought to apologise for his\nexistence, and yet fiercely calling himself an ass for such a sentiment.\nDarius Clayhanger nodded at him carelessly, but not without a\nsurprising benevolence, over his shoulder.\n\n\"This is him,\" said Darius briefly.\n\nEdwin was startled to catch a note of pride in his father's voice.\n\nLittle Mr Shushions turned slowly and looked up at Edwin's face (for he\nwas shorter even than the boy), and gradually acquainted himself with\nthe fact that Edwin was the son of his father.\n\n\"Is this thy son, Darius?\" he asked; and his ancient eyes were shining.\n\nEdwin had scarcely ever heard any one address his father by his\nChristian name.\n\nDarius nodded; and then, seeing the old man's hand creeping out towards\nhim, Edwin pulled off his cap and took the hand, and was struck by the\nhot smooth brittleness of the skin and the earnest tremulous weakness of\nthe caressing grasp.  Edwin had never seen Mr Shushions before.\n\n\"Nay, nay, my boy,\" trembled the old man, \"don't bare thy head to me ...\nnot to me!  I'm one o' th' ould sort.  Eh, I'm rare glad to see thee!\"\nHe kept Edwin's hand, and stared long at him, with his withered face\ntransfigured by solemn emotion.  Slowly he turned towards Darius, and\npulled himself together.  \"Thou'st begotten a fine lad, Darius! ... a\nfine, honest lad!\"\n\n\"So-so!\" said Darius gruffly, whom Edwin was amazed to see in a state of\nagitation similar to that of Mr Shushions.\n\nThe men gazed at each other; Edwin looked at the ground and other\nunresponsive objects.\n\n\"Edwin,\" his father said abruptly, \"run and ask Big James for th' proof\nof that Primitive Methodist hymn-paper; there's a good lad.\"\n\nAnd Edwin hastened through the shadowy shop as if loosed from a\ncaptivity, and in passing threw his satchel down on a bale of goods.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nFIVE.\n\nHe comprehended nothing of the encounter; neither as to the origin of\nthe old man's status in his father's esteem, nor as to the cause of his\nfather's strange emotion.  He regarded the old man impatiently as an\naged simpleton, probably over pious, certainly connected with the\nPrimitive Methodists.  His father had said `There's a good lad' almost\ncajolingly.  And this was odd; for, though nobody could be more\npersuasively agreeable than his father when he chose, the occasions when\nhe cared to exert his charm, especially over his children, were\ninfrequent, and getting more so.  Edwin also saw something symbolically\nominous in his being sent direct to the printing office.  It was no\naffair of his to go to the printing office.  He particularly did not\nwant to go to the printing office.\n\nHowever, he met Big James, with flowing beard and flowing apron,\ncrossing the yard.  Big James was brushing crumbs from the beard.\n\n\"Father wants the proof of some hymn-paper--I don't know what,\" he said.\n\"I was just coming--\"\n\n\"So was I, Mister Edwin,\" replied Big James in his magnificent voice,\nand with his curious humorous smile.  And he held up a sheet of paper in\nhis immense hand, and strode majestically on towards the shop.\n\nHere was another detail that struck the boy.  Always Big James had\naddressed him as `Master Edwin' or `Master Clayhanger.'  Now it was\n`Mister.'  He had left school.  Big James was, of course, aware of that,\nand Big James had enough finesse and enough gentle malice to change\ninstantly the `master' to `mister.'  Edwin was scarcely sure if Big\nJames was not laughing at him.  He could not help thinking that Big\nJames had begun so promptly to call him `mister' because the foreman\ncompositor expected that the son of the house would at once begin to\ntake a share in the business.  He could not help thinking that his\nfather must have so informed Big James.  And all this vaguely disturbed\nEdwin, and reminded him of his impending battle and of the complex\nforces marshalled against him.  And his hand, wandering in his pockets,\ntouched that unfortunate report which stated that he had lost one place\nduring the term.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nSIX.\n\nHe lingered in the blue-paved yard, across which cloud-shadows swept\ncontinually, and then Big James came back and spectacularly ascended the\nflight of wooden steps to the printing office, and disappeared.  Edwin\nknew that he must return to the shop to remove his bag, for his father\nwould assuredly reprimand him if he found it where it had been untidily\nleft.  He sidled, just like an animal, to the doorway, and then slipped\nup to the counter, behind the great mahogany case of `artists'\nmaterials.'  His father and the old man were within the shop now, and\nEdwin overheard that they were discussing a topic that had lately been\nrife in religious circles, namely, Sir Henry Thompson's ingenious device\nfor scientifically testing the efficacy of prayer, known as the `Prayer\nGauge.'  The scheme was to take certain hospitals and to pray for the\npatients in particular wards, leaving other wards unprayed for, and then\nto tabulate and issue the results.\n\nMr Shushions profoundly resented the employment of such a dodge; the\nmere idea of it shocked him, as being blasphemous; and Darius Clayhanger\ndeferentially and feelingly agreed with him, though Edwin had at least\nonce heard his father refer to the topic with the amused and\nnon-committal impartiality of a man who only went to chapel when he\nspecially felt like going.\n\n\"I've preached in the pulpits o' our Connexion,\" said Mr Shushions with\nsolemn, quavering emotion, \"for over fifty year, as you know.  But I'd\nne'er gi' out another text if Primitives had ought to do wi' such a\nflouting o' th' Almighty.  Nay, I'd go down to my grave dumb afore God!\"\n\nHe had already been upset by news of a movement that was on foot for\ndeferring Anniversary Sermons from August to September, so that people\nshould be more free to go away for a holiday, and collections be more\nfruitful.  What!  Put off God's ordinance, to enable chapel-members to\ngo `a-wakesing'!  Monstrous!  Yet September was tried, in spite of Mr\nShushions, and when even September would not work satisfactorily, God's\nordinance was shifted boldly to May, in order to catch people, and their\npockets well before the demoralisation incident to holidays.\n\nEdwin thought that his father and the mysterious old man would talk for\never, and timorously he exposed himself to obtain possession of his\nsatchel, hoping to escape unseen.  But Mr Shushions saw him, and called\nhim, and took his hand again.\n\n\"Eh, my boy,\" he said, feebly shaking the hand, \"I do pray as you'll\ngrow up to be worthy o' your father.  That's all as I pray for.\"\n\nEdwin had never considered his father as an exemplar.  He was a just and\nunmerciful judge of his father, against whom he had a thousand\ngrievances.  And in his heart he resentfully despised Mr Shushions, and\ndecided again that he was a simpleton, and not a very tactful one.  But\nthen he saw a round yellow tear slowly form in the red rim of the old\nman's eye and run crookedly down that wrinkled cheek.  And his impatient\nscorn expired.  The mere sight of him, Edwin, had brought the old man to\nweeping!  And the tear was so genuine, so convincing, so majestic that\nit induced in Edwin a blank humility.  He was astounded, mystified; but\nhe was also humbled.  He himself was never told, and he never learnt,\nthe explanation of that epic tear.\n\n\n\nVOLUME ONE, CHAPTER FOUR.\n\nTHE CHILD-MAN.\n\nThe origin of the tear on the aged cheek of Mr Shushions went back\nabout forty years, and was embedded in the infancy of Darius Clayhanger.\n\nThe earliest memory of Darius Clayhanger had to do with the capital\nletters Q W and S.  Even as the first steam-printer in Bursley, even as\nthe father of a son who had received a thoroughly sound middle-class\neducation, he never noticed a capital Q W or S without recalling the\nWidow Susan's school, where he had wonderingly learnt the significance\nof those complicated characters.  The school consisted of the entire\nground floor of her cottage, namely, one room, of which the far corner\nwas occupied by a tiny winding staircase that led to the ancient widow's\nbedchamber.  The furniture comprised a few low forms for scholars, a\ntable, and a chair; and there were some brilliant  prints on the\nwhitewashed walls.  At this school Darius acquired a knowledge of the\nalphabet, and from the alphabet passed to Reading-Made-Easy, and then to\nthe Bible.  He made such progress that the widow soon singled him out\nfor honour.  He was allowed the high and envied privilege of raking the\nashes from under the fire-place and carrying them to the ash-pit, which\nash-pit was vast and lofty, being the joint production of many cottages.\nTo reach the summit of the ash-pit, and thence to fling backwards down\nits steep sides all assailants who challenged your supremacy, was a\nprecious joy.  The battles of the ash-pit, however, were not battles of\ngiants, as no children had leisure for ash-carrying after the age of\nseven.  A still greater honour accorded to Darius was permission to sit,\nduring lessons, on the topmost visible step of the winding stair.  The\nwidow Susan, having taught Darius to read brilliantly, taught him to\nknit, and he would knit stockings for his father, mother, and sister.\n\nAt the age of seven, his education being complete, he was summoned into\nthe world.  It is true that he could neither write nor deal with the\nmultiplication table; but there were always night-schools which studious\nadults of seven and upwards might attend if business permitted.\nFurther, there was the Sunday school, which Darius had joyously\nfrequented since the age of three, and which he had no intention of\nleaving.  As he grew older the Sunday school became more and more\nenchanting to him.  Sunday morning was the morning which he lived for\nduring six days; it was the morning when his hair was brushed and\ncombed, and perfumed with a delightful oil, whose particular fragrance\nhe remembered throughout his life.  At Sunday school he was petted and\ncaressed.  His success at Sunday school was shining.  He passed over the\nheads of bigger boys, and at the age of six he was in a Bible class.\n\nUpon hearing that Darius was going out into the world, the\nsuperintendent of the Sunday school, a grave whiskered young man of\nperhaps thirty, led him one morning out of the body of the Primitive\nMethodist Chapel which served as schoolroom before and after chapel\nservice, up into the deserted gallery of the chapel, and there seated\nhim on a stair, and knelt on the stair below him, and caressed his head,\nand called him a good boy, and presented him with an old battered Bible.\nThis volume was the most valuable thing that Darius had ever possessed.\nHe ran all the way home with it, half suffocated by his triumph.\nSunday school prizes had not then been invented.  The young\nsuperintendent of the Sunday school was Mr Shushions.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTWO.\n\nThe man Darius was first taken to work by his mother.  It was the winter\nof 1835, January.  They passed through the marketplace of the town of\nTurnhill where they lived.  Turnhill lies a couple of miles north of\nBursley.  One side of the market-place was barricaded with stacks of\ncoal, and the other with loaves of a species of rye and straw bread.\nThis coal and these loaves were being served out by meticulous and\nhaughty officials, all invisibly, braided with red-tape, to a crowd of\nshivering, moaning, and weeping wretches, men, women and children--the\nbasis of the population of Turnhill.  Although they were all\nendeavouring to make a noise they made scarcely any noise, from mere\nlack of strength.  Nothing could be heard, under the implacable bright\nsky, but faint ghosts of sound, as though people were sighing and crying\nfrom within the vacuum of a huge glass bell.\n\nThe next morning, at half-past five, Darius began his career in earnest.\nHe was `mould-runner' to a `muffin-maker,' a muffin being not a\ncomestible but a small plate, fashioned by its maker on a mould.  The\nbusiness of Darius was to run as hard as he could with the mould, and a\nnewly, created plate adhering thereto, into the drying-stove.  This\n`stove' was a room lined with shelves, and having a red-hot stove and\nstove-pipe in the middle.  As no man of seven could reach the upper\nshelves, a pair of steps was provided for Darius, and up these he had to\nscamper.  Each mould with its plate had to be leaned carefully against\nthe wall and if the soft clay of a new-born plate was damaged, Darius\nwas knocked down.  The atmosphere outside the stove was chill, but owing\nto the heat of the stove, Darius was obliged to work half naked.  His\nsweat ran down his cheeks, and down his chest, and down his back, making\nwhite channels, and lastly it soaked his hair.\n\nWhen there were no moulds to be sprinted into the drying-stove, and no\nmoulds to be carried less rapidly out, Darius was engaged in\nclay-wedging.  That is to say, he took a piece of raw clay weighing more\nthan himself, cut it in two with a wire, raised one half above his head\nand crashed it down with all his force upon the other half, and he\nrepeated the process until the clay was thoroughly soft and even in\ntexture.  At a later period it was discovered that hydraulic machinery\ncould perform this operation more easily and more effectually than the\nbrawny arms of a man of seven.  At eight o'clock in the evening Darius\nwas told that he had done enough for that day, and that he must arrive\nat five sharp the next morning to light the fire, before his master the\nmuffin-maker began to work.  When he inquired how he was to light the\nfire his master kicked him jovially on the thigh and suggested that he\nshould ask another mould-runner.  His master was not a bad man at heart,\nit was said, but on Tuesdays, after Sunday, and Saint Monday, masters\nwere apt to be capricious.\n\nDarius reached home at a quarter to nine, having eaten nothing but bread\nall day.  Somehow he had lapsed into the child again.  His mother took\nhim on her knee, and wrapped her sacking apron round his ragged clothes,\nand cried over him and cried into his supper of porridge, and undressed\nhim and put him to bed.  But he could not sleep easily because he was\nafraid of being late the next morning.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTHREE.\n\nAnd the next morning wandering about the yards of the manufactory in a\nstorm of icy sleet a little before five o'clock, he learnt from a more\nexperienced companion that nobody would provide him with kindling for\nhis fire, that on the contrary everybody who happened to be on the place\nat that hour would unite to prevent him from getting kindling, and that\nhe must steal it or expect to be thrashed before six o'clock.  Near them\na vast kiln of ware in process of firing showed a white flaming glow at\neach of its mouths in the black winter darkness.  Darius's mentor crept\nup to the archway of the great hovel which protected the kiln, and\npointed like a conspirator to the figure of the guardian fireman dozing\nnear his monster.  The boy had the handle-less remains of an old spade,\nand with it he crept into the hovel, dangerously abstracted fire from\none of the scorching mouths, and fled therewith, and the fireman never\nstirred.  Then Darius, to whom the mentor kindly lent his spade,\nattempted to do the same, but being inexpert woke the fireman, who held\nhim spellbound by his roaring voice and then flung him like a sack of\npotatoes bodily into the slush of the yard, and the spade after him.\nHappily the mentor, whose stove was now alight, lent fire to Darius, so\nthat Darius's stove too was cheerfully burning when his master came.\nAnd Darius was too excited to feel fatigue.\n\nBy six o'clock on Saturday night Darius had earned a shilling for his\nweek's work.  But he could only possess himself of the shilling by going\nto a magnificent public-house with his master the muffin-maker.  This\nwas the first time that he had ever been inside a public-house.  The\nplace was crowded with men, women, and children eating the most lovely,\nhot rolls and drinking beer, in an atmosphere exquisitely warm.  And\nbehind a high counter a stout jolly man was counting piles and piles and\npiles of silver.  Darius's master, in company, with other boys' masters,\ngave this stout man four sovereigns to change, and it was an hour before\nhe changed them.  Meanwhile Darius was instructed that he must eat a\nroll like the rest, together with cheese.  Never had he tasted anything\nso luscious.  He had a match with his mentor, as to which of them could\nspin out his roll the longer, honestly chewing all the time; and he won.\nSome one gave him half a glass of beer.  At half-past seven he received\nhis shilling which consisted of a sixpenny-piece and four pennies; and\nleaving the gay, public-house, pushed his way through a crowd of tearful\nwomen with babies in their arms at the doors, and went home.  And such\nwas the attraction of the Sunday school that he was there the next\nmorning, with scented hair, two minutes before the opening.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nFOUR.\n\nIn about a year Darius's increasing knowledge of the world enabled him\nto rise in it.  He became a handle-maker in another manufactory, and\nalso he went about with the pride of one who could form the letters of\nthe alphabet with a pen.  In his new work he had to put a bit of clay\nbetween two moulds, and then force the top mould on to the bottom one by\nmeans of his stomach which it was necessary to press downwards and at\nthe same time to wriggle with a peculiar movement.  The workman to whom\nhe was assigned, his new `master,' attached these handles, with strange\nrapid skill, to beer-mugs.  For Darius the labour was much lighter than\nthat of mould-running and clay-wedging, and the pay was somewhat higher.\nBut there were minor disadvantages.  He descended by twenty steps to\nhis toil, and worked in a long cellar which never received any air\nexcept by way of the steps and a passage, and never any daylight at all.\nIts sole illumination was a stove used for drying.  The `throwers'' and\nthe `turners'' rooms were also subterranean dungeons.  When in full\nactivity all these stinking cellars were full of men, boys, and young\nwomen, working close together in a hot twilight.  Certain boys were\ntrained contrabandists of beer, and beer came as steadily into the\ndungeons as though it had been laid on by a main pipe.  It was not\nhonourable even on the part of a young woman, to refuse beer,\nparticularly when the beer happened to arrive in the late afternoon.  On\nsuch occasions young men and women would often entirely omit to go home\nof a night, and seasoned men of the world aged eight, on descending into\nthe dungeons early the next morning, would have a full view of\npandemonium, and they would witness during the day salutary scenes of\nremorse, and proofs of the existence of a profound belief in the\nhomeopathic properties of beer.\n\nBut perhaps the worst drawback of Darius's new position was the long and\nirregular hours, due partly to the influences of Saint Monday and of the\nscenes above indicated but not described, and partly to the fact that\nthe employes were on piece-work and entirely unhampered by grandmotherly\nlegislation.  The result was that six days' work was generally done in\nfour.  And as the younger the workman the earlier he had to start in the\nmorning, Darius saw scarcely enough of his bed.  It was not of course to\nbe expected that a self-supporting man of the world should rigorously\nconfine himself to an eight-hour day or even a twelve-hour day, but\nDarius's day would sometimes stretch to eighteen and nineteen hours:\nwhich on hygienic grounds could not be unreservedly defended.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nFIVE.\n\nOne Tuesday evening his master, after three days of debauch, ordered him\nto be at work at three o'clock the next morning.  He quickly and even\neagerly agreed, for he was already intimate with his master's rope-lash.\nHe reached home at ten o'clock on an autumn night, and went to bed and\nto sleep.  He woke up with a start, in the dark.  There was no watch or\nclock in the house, from which nearly all the furniture had gradually\nvanished, but he knew it must be already after three o'clock; and he\nsprang up and rushed out.  Of course he had not undressed; his life was\ntoo strenuous for mere formalities.  The stars shone above him as he ran\nalong, wondering whether after all, though late, he could by\nunprecedented effort make the ordained number of handles before his\nmaster tumbled into the cellar at five o'clock.\n\nWhen he had run a mile he met some sewage men on their rounds, who in\nreply, to his question told him that the hour was half after midnight.\nHe dared not risk a return to home and bed, for within two and a half\nhours he must be at work.  He wandered aimlessly over the surface of the\nearth until he came to a tile-works, more or less unenclosed, whose\nprimitive ovens showed a glare.  He ventured within, and in spite of\nhimself sat down on the ground near one of those heavenly ovens.  And\nthen he wanted to get up again, for he could feel the strong breath of\nhis enemy, sleep.  But he could not get up.  In a state of terror he\nyielded himself to his enemy.  Shameful cowardice on the part of a man\nnow aged nine!  God, however, is merciful, and sent to him an angel in\nthe guise of a night-watchman, who kicked him into wakefulness and off\nthe place.  He ran on limping, beneath the stellar systems, and reached\nhis work at half-past four o'clock.\n\nAlthough he had never felt so exhausted in his long life, he set to work\nwith fury.  Useless!  When his master arrived he had scarcely got\nthrough the preliminaries.  He dully faced his master in the narrow\nstifling cellar, lit by candles impaled on nails and already peopled by\nthe dim figures of boys, girls, and a few men.  His master was of\ntaciturn habit and merely told him to kneel down.  He knelt.  Two bigger\nboys turned hastily from their work to snatch a glimpse of the affair.\nThe master moved to the back of the cellar and took from a box a piece\nof rope an inch thick and clogged with clay.  At the same moment a\ncompanion offered him, in silence, a tin with a slim neck, out of which\nhe drank deep; it contained a pint of porter owing on loan from the\nprevious day.  When the master came in due course with the rope to do\njustice upon the sluggard he found the lad fallen forward and breathing\nheavily and regularly.  Darius had gone to sleep.  He was awakened with\nsome violence, but the public opinion of the dungeon saved him from a\ntorn shirt and a bloody back.\n\nThis was Darius's last day on a pot-bank.  The next morning he and his\nwent in procession to the Bastille, as the place was called.  His\nfather, having been too prominent and too independent in a strike, had\nbeen black-listed by every manufacturer in the district; and Darius,\nthough nine, could not keep the family.\n\n\n\nVOLUME ONE, CHAPTER FIVE.\n\nMR. SHUSHIONS'S TEAR EXPLAINED.\n\nThe Bastille was on the top of a hill about a couple of miles long, and\nthe journey thither was much lengthened by the desire of the family to\navoid the main road.  They were all intensely ashamed; Darius was\nashamed to tears, and did not know why; even his little sister wept and\nhad to be carried, not because she was shoeless and had had nothing to\neat, but because she was going to the Ba-ba-bastille; she had no notion\nwhat the place was.  It proved to be the largest building that Darius\nhad ever seen; and indeed it was the largest in the district; they stood\nagainst its steep sides like flies against a kennel.  Then there was\nrattling of key-bunches, and the rasping voices of sour officials, who\ndid not inquire if they would like a meal after their stroll.  And they\nwere put into a cellar and stripped and washed and dressed in other\npeople's clothes, and then separated, amid tears.  And Darius was\npitched into a large crowd of other boys, all clothed like himself.  He\nnow understood the reason for shame; it was because he could have no\ndistinctive clothes of his own, because he had somehow lost his identity.\nAll the boys had a sullen, furtive glance, and when they spoke it was in\nwhispers.\n\nIn the low room where the boys were assembled there fell a silence, and\nDarius heard some one whisper that the celebrated boy who had run away\nand been caught would be flogged before supper.  Down the long room ran\na long table.  Some one brought in three candles in tin candlesticks and\nset them near the end of this table.  Then somebody else brought in a\npickled birch-rod, dripping with the salt water from which it had been\ntaken, and also a small square table.  Then came some officials, and a\nclergyman, and then, surpassing the rest in majesty, the governor of the\nBastille, a terrible man.  The governor made a speech about the crime of\nrunning away from the Bastille, and when he had spoken for a fair time,\nthe clergyman talked in the same sense; and then a captured tiger,\ndressed like a boy, with darting fierce eyes, was dragged in by two men,\nand laid face down on the square table, and four boys were commanded to\nstep forward and hold tightly the four members of this tiger.  And, his\nclothes having previously been removed as far as his waist, his breeches\nwere next pulled down his legs.  Then the rod was raised and it\ndescended swishing, and blood began to flow; but far more startling than\nthe blood were the shrill screams of the tiger; they were so loud and\ndeafening that the spectators could safely converse under their shelter.\nThe boys in charge of the victim had to cling hard and grind their\nteeth in the effort to keep him prone.  As the blows succeeded each\nother, Darius became more and more ashamed.  The physical spectacle did\nnot sicken nor horrify him, for he was a man of wide experience; but he\nhad never before seen flogging by lawful authority.  Flogging in the\nworkshop was different, a private if sanguinary affair between free\nhuman beings.  This ritualistic and cold-blooded torture was infinitely\nmore appalling in its humiliation.  The screaming grew feebler, then\nceased; then the blows ceased, and the unconscious infant (cured of\nbeing a tiger) was carried away leaving a trail of red drops along the\nfloor.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTWO.\n\nAfter this, supper was prepared on the long table, and the clergyman\ncalled down upon it the blessing of God, and enjoined the boys to be\nthankful, and departed in company with the governor.  Darius, who had\nnot tasted all day, could not eat.  The flogging had not nauseated him,\nbut the bread and the skilly revolted his pampered tastes.  Never had\nhe, with all his experience, seen nor smelt anything so foully\ndisgusting.  When supper was completed, a minor official interceded with\nthe Almighty in various ways for ten minutes, and at last the boys were\nmarched upstairs to bed.  They all slept in one room.  The night also\ncould be set down in words, but must not be, lest the setting-down\nshould be disastrous...\n\nDarius knew that he was ruined; he knew that he was a workhouse boy for\nevermore, and that the bright freedom of sixteen hours a day in a cellar\nwas lost to him for evermore.  He was now a prisoner, branded, hopeless.\nHe would never be able to withstand the influences that had closed\naround him and upon him.  He supposed that he should become desperate,\nbecome a tiger, and then...\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nTHREE.\n\nBut the following afternoon he was forcibly reclothed in his own\nbeautiful and beloved rags, and was pushed out of the Bastille, and\nthere he saw his pale father and his mother, and his little sister, and\nanother man.  And his mother was on her knees in the cold autumn\nsunshine, and hysterically clasping the knees of the man, and weeping;\nand the man was trying to raise her, and the man was weeping too.\nDarius wept.  The man was Mr Shushions.  Somehow, in a way that Darius\ncomprehended not, Mr Shushions had saved them.  Mr Shushions, in a\nbeaver tall-hat and with an apron rolled round his waist under his coat,\nescorted them back to their house, into which some fresh furniture had\nbeen brought.  And Darius knew that a situation was waiting for his\nfather.  And further, Mr Shushions, by his immense mysterious power,\nfound a superb situation for Darius himself as a printer's devil.  All\nthis because Mr Shushions, as superintendent of a Sunday school, was\nemotionally interested in the queer, harsh boy who had there picked up\nthe art of writing so quickly.\n\nSuch was the origin of the tear that ran down Mr Shushions's cheek when\nhe beheld Edwin, well-nourished, well-dressed and intelligent, the son\nof Darius the successful steam-printer.  Mr Shushions's tear was the\ntear of the creator looking upon his creation and marvelling at it.  Mr\nShushions loved Darius as only the benefactor can love the benefited.\nHe had been out of the district for over thirty years, and, having\nreturned there to die, the wonder of what he had accomplished by merely\nsaving a lad from the certain perdition of a prolonged stay in the\nworkhouse, struck him blindingly in the face and dazzled him.\n\nDarius had never spoken to a soul of his night in the Bastille.  All his\ninfancy was his own fearful secret.  His life, seen whole, had been a\nmiracle\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": 16384, "chars": 65232, "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 her; and on a newspaper spread out upon\nthe hearthrug, a myriad of crescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a\nmarigold scattered in the reddening firelight.\n\nMrs. Morel stood still. It was her first baby. She went very white, and\nwas unable to speak.\n\n\"What dost think o' 'im?\" Morel laughed uneasily.\n\nShe gripped her two fists, lifted them, and came forward. Morel shrank\nback.\n\n\"I could kill you, I could!\" she said. She choked with rage, her two\nfists uplifted.\n\n\"Yer non want ter make a wench on 'im,\" Morel said, in a frightened\ntone, bending his head to shield his eyes from hers. His attempt at\nlaughter had vanished.\n\nThe mother looked down at the jagged, close-clipped head of her child.\nShe put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondled his head.\n\n\"Oh--my boy!\" she faltered. Her lip trembled, her face broke, and,\nsnatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulder and cried\npainfully. She was one of those women who cannot cry; whom it hurts as\nit hurts a man. It was like ripping something out of her, her sobbing.\n\nMorel sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped together till\nthe knuckles were white. He gazed in the fire, feeling almost stunned,\nas if he could not breathe.\n\nPresently she came to an end, soothed the child and cleared away the\nbreakfast-table. She left the newspaper, littered with curls, spread\nupon the hearthrug. At last her husband gathered it up and put it at\nthe back of the fire. She went about her work with closed mouth and very\nquiet. Morel was subdued. He crept about wretchedly, and his meals were\na misery that day. She spoke to him civilly, and never alluded to what\nhe had done. But he felt something final had happened.\n\nAfterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hair would have\nhad to be cut, sooner or later. In the end, she even brought herself to\nsay to her husband it was just as well he had played barber when he\ndid. But she knew, and Morel knew, that that act had caused something\nmomentous to take place in her soul. She remembered the scene all her\nlife, as one in which she had suffered the most intensely.\n\nThis act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side of her\nlove for Morel. Before, while she had striven against him bitterly, she\nhad fretted after him, as if he had gone astray from her. Now she ceased\nto fret for his love: he was an outsider to her. This made life much\nmore bearable.\n\nNevertheless, she still continued to strive with him. She still had her\nhigh moral sense, inherited from generations of Puritans. It was now a\nreligious instinct, and she was almost a fanatic with him, because\nshe loved him, or had loved him. If he sinned, she tortured him. If he\ndrank, and lied, was often a poltroon, sometimes a knave, she wielded\nthe lash unmercifully.\n\nThe pity was, she was too much his opposite. She could not be content\nwith the little he might be; she would have him the much that he ought\nto be. So, in seeking to make him nobler than he could be, she destroyed\nhim. She injured and hurt and scarred herself, but she lost none of her\nworth. She also had the children.\n\nHe drank rather heavily, though not more than many miners, and always\nbeer, so that whilst his health was affected, it was never injured.\nThe week-end was his chief carouse. He sat in the Miners' Arms until\nturning-out time every Friday, every Saturday, and every Sunday evening.\nOn Monday and Tuesday he had to get up and reluctantly leave towards ten\no'clock. Sometimes he stayed at home on Wednesday and Thursday evenings,\nor was only out for an hour. He practically never had to miss work owing\nto his drinking.\n\nBut although he was very steady at work, his wages fell off. He was\nblab-mouthed, a tongue-wagger. Authority was hateful to him, therefore\nhe could only abuse the pit-managers. He would say, in the Palmerston:\n\n\"Th' gaffer come down to our stall this morning, an' 'e says, 'You know,\nWalter, this 'ere'll not do. What about these props?' An' I says to him,\n'Why, what art talkin' about? What d'st mean about th' props?' 'It'll\nnever do, this 'ere,' 'e says. 'You'll be havin' th' roof in, one o'\nthese days.' An' I says, 'Tha'd better stan' on a bit o' clunch, then,\nan' hold it up wi' thy 'ead.' So 'e wor that mad, 'e cossed an' 'e\nswore, an' t'other chaps they did laugh.\" Morel was a good mimic. He\nimitated the manager's fat, squeaky voice, with its attempt at good\nEnglish.\n\n\"'I shan't have it, Walter. Who knows more about it, me or you?' So\nI says, 'I've niver fun out how much tha' knows, Alfred. It'll 'appen\ncarry thee ter bed an' back.\"'\n\nSo Morel would go on to the amusement of his boon companions. And some\nof this would be true. The pit-manager was not an educated man. He had\nbeen a boy along with Morel, so that, while the two disliked each other,\nthey more or less took each other for granted. But Alfred Charlesworth\ndid not forgive the butty these public-house sayings. Consequently,\nalthough Morel was a good miner, sometimes earning as much as five\npounds a week when he married, he came gradually to have worse and worse\nstalls, where the coal was thin, and hard to get, and unprofitable.\n\nAlso, in summer, the pits are slack. Often, on bright sunny mornings,\nthe men are seen trooping home again at ten, eleven, or twelve o'clock.\nNo empty trucks stand at the pit-mouth. The women on the hillside look\nacross as they shake the hearthrug against the fence, and count the\nwagons the engine is taking along the line up the valley. And the\nchildren, as they come from school at dinner-time, looking down the\nfields and seeing the wheels on the headstocks standing, say:\n\n\"Minton's knocked off. My dad'll be at home.\"\n\nAnd there is a sort of shadow over all, women and children and men,\nbecause money will be short at the end of the week.\n\nMorel was supposed to give his wife thirty shillings a week, to\nprovide everything--rent, food, clothes, clubs, insurance, doctors.\nOccasionally, if he were flush, he gave her thirty-five. But these\noccasions by no means balanced those when he gave her twenty-five. In\nwinter, with a decent stall, the miner might earn fifty or fifty-five\nshillings a week. Then he was happy. On Friday night, Saturday, and\nSunday, he spent royally, getting rid of his sovereign or thereabouts.\nAnd out of so much, he scarcely spared the children an extra penny or\nbought them a pound of apples. It all went in drink. In the bad times,\nmatters were more worrying, but he was not so often drunk, so that Mrs.\nMorel used to say:\n\n\"I'm not sure I wouldn't rather be short, for when he's flush, there\nisn't a minute of peace.\"\n\nIf he earned forty shillings he kept ten; from thirty-five he kept five;\nfrom thirty-two he kept four; from twenty-eight he kept three; from\ntwenty-four he kept two; from twenty he kept one-and-six; from eighteen\nhe kept a shilling; from sixteen he kept sixpence. He never saved a\npenny, and he gave his wife no opportunity of saving; instead, she had\noccasionally to pay his debts; not public-house debts, for those never\nwere passed on to the women, but debts when he had bought a canary, or a\nfancy walking-stick.\n\nAt the wakes time Morel was working badly, and Mrs. Morel was trying\nto save against her confinement. So it galled her bitterly to think\nhe should be out taking his pleasure and spending money, whilst she\nremained at home, harassed. There were two days' holiday. On the Tuesday\nmorning Morel rose early. He was in good spirits. Quite early, before\nsix o'clock, she heard him whistling away to himself downstairs. He\nhad a pleasant way of whistling, lively and musical. He nearly always\nwhistled hymns. He had been a choir-boy with a beautiful voice, and had\ntaken solos in Southwell cathedral. His morning whistling alone betrayed\nit.\n\nHis wife lay listening to him tinkering away in the garden, his\nwhistling ringing out as he sawed and hammered away. It always gave\nher a sense of warmth and peace to hear him thus as she lay in bed, the\nchildren not yet awake, in the bright early morning, happy in his man's\nfashion.\n\nAt nine o'clock, while the children with bare legs and feet were sitting\nplaying on the sofa, and the mother was washing up, he came in from his\ncarpentry, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat hanging open. He was\nstill a good-looking man, with black, wavy hair, and a large black\nmoustache. His face was perhaps too much inflamed, and there was about\nhim a look almost of peevishness. But now he was jolly. He went straight\nto the sink where his wife was washing up.\n\n\"What, are thee there!\" he said boisterously. \"Sluthe off an' let me\nwesh mysen.\"\n\n\"You may wait till I've finished,\" said his wife.\n\n\"Oh, mun I? An' what if I shonna?\"\n\nThis good-humoured threat amused Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Then you can go and wash yourself in the soft-water tub.\"\n\n\"Ha! I can' an' a', tha mucky little 'ussy.\"\n\nWith which he stood watching her a moment, then went away to wait for\nher.\n\nWhen he chose he could still make himself again a real gallant. Usually\nhe preferred to go out with a scarf round his neck. Now, however, he\nmade a toilet. There seemed so much gusto in the way he puffed and\nswilled as he washed himself, so much alacrity with which he hurried to\nthe mirror in the kitchen, and, bending because it was too low for him,\nscrupulously parted his wet black hair, that it irritated Mrs. Morel. He\nput on a turn-down collar, a black bow, and wore his Sunday tail-coat.\nAs such, he looked spruce, and what his clothes would not do, his\ninstinct for making the most of his good looks would.\n\nAt half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal. Jerry was\nMorel's bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked him. He was a tall,\nthin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of face that seems to lack\neyelashes. He walked with a stiff, brittle dignity, as if his head were\non a wooden spring. His nature was cold and shrewd. Generous where he\nintended to be generous, he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more or\nless to take charge of him.\n\nMrs. Morel hated him. She had known his wife, who had died of\nconsumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violent dislike\nof her husband, that if he came into her room it caused her haemorrhage.\nNone of which Jerry had seemed to mind. And now his eldest daughter,\na girl of fifteen, kept a poor house for him, and looked after the two\nyounger children.\n\n\"A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!\" Mrs. Morel said of him.\n\n\"I've never known Jerry mean in MY life,\" protested Morel. \"A\nopener-handed and more freer chap you couldn't find anywhere, accordin'\nto my knowledge.\"\n\n\"Open-handed to you,\" retorted Mrs. Morel. \"But his fist is shut tight\nenough to his children, poor things.\"\n\n\"Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I should like to know.\"\n\nBut Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry's score.\n\nThe subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neck over the\nscullery curtain. He caught Mrs. Morel's eye.\n\n\"Mornin', missis! Mester in?\"\n\n\"Yes--he is.\"\n\nJerry entered unasked, and stood by the kitchen doorway. He was not\ninvited to sit down, but stood there, coolly asserting the rights of men\nand husbands.\n\n\"A nice day,\" he said to Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Yes.\n\n\"Grand out this morning--grand for a walk.\"\n\n\"Do you mean YOU'RE going for a walk?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes. We mean walkin' to Nottingham,\" he replied.\n\n\"H'm!\"\n\nThe two men greeted each other, both glad: Jerry, however, full of\nassurance, Morel rather subdued, afraid to seem too jubilant in presence\nof his wife. But he laced his boots quickly, with spirit. They were\ngoing for a ten-mile walk across the fields to Nottingham. Climbing the\nhillside from the Bottoms, they mounted gaily into the morning. At the\nMoon and Stars they had their first drink, then on to the Old Spot. Then\na long five miles of drought to carry them into Bulwell to a glorious\npint of bitter. But they stayed in a field with some haymakers whose\ngallon bottle was full, so that, when they came in sight of the city,\nMorel was sleepy. The town spread upwards before them, smoking vaguely\nin the midday glare, fridging the crest away to the south with spires\nand factory bulks and chimneys. In the last field Morel lay down under\nan oak tree and slept soundly for over an hour. When he rose to go\nforward he felt queer.\n\nThe two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister, then repaired\nto the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitement of pigeon-racing.\nMorel never in his life played cards, considering them as having some\noccult, malevolent power--\"the devil's pictures,\" he called them! But\nhe was a master of skittles and of dominoes. He took a challenge from\na Newark man, on skittles. All the men in the old, long bar took sides,\nbetting either one way or the other. Morel took off his coat. Jerry held\nthe hat containing the money. The men at the tables watched. Some\nstood with their mugs in their hands. Morel felt his big wooden ball\ncarefully, then launched it. He played havoc among the nine-pins, and\nwon half a crown, which restored him to solvency.\n\nBy seven o'clock the two were in good condition. They caught the 7.30\ntrain home.\n\nIn the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable. Every inhabitant remaining\nwas out of doors. The women, in twos and threes, bareheaded and in white\naprons, gossiped in the alley between the blocks. Men, having a rest\nbetween drinks, sat on their heels and talked. The place smelled stale;\nthe slate roofs glistered in the arid heat.\n\nMrs. Morel took the little girl down to the brook in the meadows, which\nwere not more than two hundred yards away. The water ran quickly over\nstones and broken pots. Mother and child leaned on the rail of the old\nsheep-bridge, watching. Up at the dipping-hole, at the other end of the\nmeadow, Mrs. Morel could see the naked forms of boys flashing round the\ndeep yellow water, or an occasional bright figure dart glittering over\nthe blackish stagnant meadow. She knew William was at the dipping-hole,\nand it was the dread of her life lest he should get drowned. Annie\nplayed under the tall old hedge, picking up alder cones, that she called\ncurrants. The child required much attention, and the flies were teasing.\n\nThe children were put to bed at seven o'clock. Then she worked awhile.\n\nWhen Walter Morel and Jerry arrived at Bestwood they felt a load off\ntheir minds; a railway journey no longer impended, so they could put the\nfinishing touches to a glorious day. They entered the Nelson with the\nsatisfaction of returned travellers.\n\nThe next day was a work-day, and the thought of it put a damper on the\nmen's spirits. Most of them, moreover, had spent their money. Some were\nalready rolling dismally home, to sleep in preparation for the morrow.\nMrs. Morel, listening to their mournful singing, went indoors. Nine\no'clock passed, and ten, and still \"the pair\" had not returned. On a\ndoorstep somewhere a man was singing loudly, in a drawl: \"Lead, kindly\nLight.\" Mrs. Morel was always indignant with the drunken men that they\nmust sing that hymn when they got maudlin.\n\n\"As if 'Genevieve' weren't good enough,\" she said.\n\nThe kitchen was full of the scent of boiled herbs and hops. On the hob a\nlarge black saucepan steamed slowly. Mrs. Morel took a panchion, a great\nbowl of thick red earth, streamed a heap of white sugar into the bottom,\nand then, straining herself to the weight, was pouring in the liquor.\n\nJust then Morel came in. He had been very jolly in the Nelson, but\ncoming home had grown irritable. He had not quite got over the feeling\nof irritability and pain, after having slept on the ground when he was\nso hot; and a bad conscience afflicted him as he neared the house.\nHe did not know he was angry. But when the garden gate resisted his\nattempts to open it, he kicked it and broke the latch. He entered just\nas Mrs. Morel was pouring the infusion of herbs out of the saucepan.\nSwaying slightly, he lurched against the table. The boiling liquor\npitched. Mrs. Morel started back.\n\n\"Good gracious,\" she cried, \"coming home in his drunkenness!\"\n\n\"Comin' home in his what?\" he snarled, his hat over his eye.\n\nSuddenly her blood rose in a jet.\n\n\"Say you're NOT drunk!\" she flashed.\n\nShe had put down her saucepan, and was stirring the sugar into the\nbeer. He dropped his two hands heavily on the table, and thrust his face\nforwards at her.\n\n\"'Say you're not drunk,'\" he repeated. \"Why, nobody but a nasty little\nbitch like you 'ud 'ave such a thought.\"\n\nHe thrust his face forward at her.\n\n\"There's money to bezzle with, if there's money for nothing else.\"\n\n\"I've not spent a two-shillin' bit this day,\" he said.\n\n\"You don't get as drunk as a lord on nothing,\" she replied. \"And,\"\nshe cried, flashing into sudden fury, \"if you've been sponging on your\nbeloved Jerry, why, let him look after his children, for they need it.\"\n\n\"It's a lie, it's a lie. Shut your face, woman.\"\n\nThey were now at battle-pitch. Each forgot everything save the hatred of\nthe other and the battle between them. She was fiery and furious as he.\nThey went on till he called her a liar.\n\n\"No,\" she cried, starting up, scarce able to breathe. \"Don't call me\nthat--you, the most despicable liar that ever walked in shoe-leather.\"\nShe forced the last words out of suffocated lungs.\n\n\"You're a liar!\" he yelled, banging the table with his fist. \"You're a\nliar, you're a liar.\"\n\nShe stiffened herself, with clenched fists.\n\n\"The house is filthy with you,\" she cried.\n\n\"Then get out on it--it's mine. Get out on it!\" he shouted. \"It's me as\nbrings th' money whoam, not thee. It's my house, not thine. Then ger out\non't--ger out on't!\"\n\n\"And I would,\" she cried, suddenly shaken into tears of impotence. \"Ah,\nwouldn't I, wouldn't I have gone long ago, but for those children. Ay,\nhaven't I repented not going years ago, when I'd only the one\"--suddenly\ndrying into rage. \"Do you think it's for YOU I stop--do you think I'd\nstop one minute for YOU?\"\n\n\"Go, then,\" he shouted, beside himself. \"Go!\"\n\n\"No!\" She faced round. \"No,\" she cried loudly, \"you shan't have it ALL\nyour own way; you shan't do ALL you like. I've got those children to see\nto. My word,\" she laughed, \"I should look well to leave them to you.\"\n\n\"Go,\" he cried thickly, lifting his fist. He was afraid of her. \"Go!\"\n\n\"I should be only too glad. I should laugh, laugh, my lord, if I could\nget away from you,\" she replied.\n\nHe came up to her, his red face, with its bloodshot eyes, thrust\nforward, and gripped her arms. She cried in fear of him, struggled to be\nfree. Coming slightly to himself, panting, he pushed her roughly to the\nouter door, and thrust her forth, slotting the bolt behind her with a\nbang. Then he went back into the kitchen, dropped into his armchair, his\nhead, bursting full of blood, sinking between his knees. Thus he dipped\ngradually into a stupor, from exhaustion and intoxication.\n\nThe moon was high and magnificent in the August night. Mrs. Morel,\nseared with passion, shivered to find herself out there in a great white\nlight, that fell cold on her, and gave a shock to her inflamed soul.\nShe stood for a few moments helplessly staring at the glistening great\nrhubarb leaves near the door. Then she got the air into her breast. She\nwalked down the garden path, trembling in every limb, while the child\nboiled within her. For a while she could not control her consciousness;\nmechanically she went over the last scene, then over it again, certain\nphrases, certain moments coming each time like a brand red-hot down on\nher soul; and each time she enacted again the past hour, each time the\nbrand came down at the same points, till the mark was burnt in, and the\npain burnt out, and at last she came to herself. She must have been half\nan hour in this delirious condition. Then the presence of the night came\nagain to her. She glanced round in fear. She had wandered to the side\ngarden, where she was walking up and down the path beside the currant\nbushes under the long wall. The garden was a narrow strip, bounded from\nthe road, that cut transversely between the blocks, by a thick thorn\nhedge.\n\nShe hurried out of the side garden to the front, where she could stand\nas if in an immense gulf of white light, the moon streaming high in face\nof her, the moonlight standing up from the hills in front, and filling\nthe valley where the Bottoms crouched, almost blindingly. There, panting\nand half weeping in reaction from the stress, she murmured to herself\nover and over again: \"The nuisance! the nuisance!\"\n\nShe became aware of something about her. With an effort she roused\nherself to see what it was that penetrated her consciousness. The tall\nwhite lilies were reeling in the moonlight, and the air was charged with\ntheir perfume, as with a presence. Mrs. Morel gasped slightly in fear.\nShe touched the big, pallid flowers on their petals, then shivered.\nThey seemed to be stretching in the moonlight. She put her hand into\none white bin: the gold scarcely showed on her fingers by moonlight. She\nbent down to look at the binful of yellow pollen; but it only appeared\ndusky. Then she drank a deep draught of the scent. It almost made her\ndizzy.\n\nMrs. Morel leaned on the garden gate, looking out, and she lost herself\nawhile. She did not know what she thought. Except for a slight feeling\nof sickness, and her consciousness in the child, herself melted out like\nscent into the shiny, pale air. After a time the child, too, melted with\nher in the mixing-pot of moonlight, and she rested with the hills and\nlilies and houses, all swum together in a kind of swoon.\n\nWhen she came to herself she was tired for sleep. Languidly she looked\nabout her; the clumps of white phlox seemed like bushes spread with\nlinen; a moth ricochetted over them, and right across the garden.\nFollowing it with her eye roused her. A few whiffs of the raw, strong\nscent of phlox invigorated her. She passed along the path, hesitating at\nthe white rose-bush. It smelled sweet and simple. She touched the white\nruffles of the roses. Their fresh scent and cool, soft leaves reminded\nher of the morning-time and sunshine. She was very fond of them. But she\nwas tired, and wanted to sleep. In the mysterious out-of-doors she felt\nforlorn.\n\nThere was no noise anywhere. Evidently the children had not been\nwakened, or had gone to sleep again. A train, three miles away,\nroared across the valley. The night was very large, and very strange,\nstretching its hoary distances infinitely. And out of the silver-grey\nfog of darkness came sounds vague and hoarse: a corncrake not far off,\nsound of a train like a sigh, and distant shouts of men.\n\nHer quietened heart beginning to beat quickly again, she hurried down\nthe side garden to the back of the house. Softly she lifted the latch;\nthe door was still bolted, and hard against her. She rapped gently,\nwaited, then rapped again. She must not rouse the children, nor the\nneighbours. He must be asleep, and he would not wake easily. Her heart\nbegan to burn to be indoors. She clung to the door-handle. Now it was\ncold; she would take a chill, and in her present condition!\n\nPutting her apron over her head and her arms, she hurried again to the\nside garden, to the window of the kitchen. Leaning on the sill, she\ncould just see, under the blind, her husband's arms spread out on the\ntable, and his black head on the board. He was sleeping with his face\nlying on the table. Something in his attitude made her feel tired of\nthings. The lamp was burning smokily; she could tell by the copper\ncolour of the light. She tapped at the window more and more noisily.\nAlmost it seemed as if the glass would break. Still he did not wake up.\n\nAfter vain efforts, she began to shiver, partly from contact with the\nstone, and from exhaustion. Fearful always for the unborn child, she\nwondered what she could do for warmth. She went down to the coal-house,\nwhere there was an old hearthrug she had carried out for the rag-man the\nday before. This she wrapped over her shoulders. It was warm, if grimy.\nThen she walked up and down the garden path, peeping every now and then\nunder the blind, knocking, and telling herself that in the end the very\nstrain of his position must wake him.\n\nAt last, after about an hour, she rapped long and low at the window.\nGradually the sound penetrated to him. When, in despair, she had ceased\nto tap, she saw him stir, then lift his face blindly. The labouring of\nhis heart hurt him into consciousness. She rapped imperatively at the\nwindow. He started awake. Instantly she saw his fists set and his\neyes glare. He had not a grain of physical fear. If it had been\ntwenty burglars, he would have gone blindly for them. He glared round,\nbewildered, but prepared to fight.\n\n\"Open the door, Walter,\" she said coldly.\n\nHis hands relaxed. It dawned on him what he had done. His head dropped,\nsullen and dogged. She saw him hurry to the door, heard the bolt chock.\nHe tried the latch. It opened--and there stood the silver-grey night,\nfearful to him, after the tawny light of the lamp. He hurried back.\n\nWhen Mrs. Morel entered, she saw him almost running through the door\nto the stairs. He had ripped his collar off his neck in his haste to\nbe gone ere she came in, and there it lay with bursten button-holes. It\nmade her angry.\n\nShe warmed and soothed herself. In her weariness forgetting everything,\nshe moved about at the little tasks that remained to be done, set his\nbreakfast, rinsed his pit-bottle, put his pit-clothes on the hearth\nto warm, set his pit-boots beside them, put him out a clean scarf and\nsnap-bag and two apples, raked the fire, and went to bed. He was already\ndead asleep. His narrow black eyebrows were drawn up in a sort of\npeevish misery into his forehead while his cheeks' down-strokes, and his\nsulky mouth, seemed to be saying: \"I don't care who you are nor what you\nare, I SHALL have my own way.\"\n\nMrs. Morel knew him too well to look at him. As she unfastened her\nbrooch at the mirror, she smiled faintly to see her face all smeared\nwith the yellow dust of lilies. She brushed it off, and at last lay\ndown. For some time her mind continued snapping and jetting sparks,\nbut she was asleep before her husband awoke from the first sleep of his\ndrunkenness.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE BIRTH OF PAUL, AND ANOTHER BATTLE\n\nAFTER such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashed\nand ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yet\nthere was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance. Physically\neven, he shrank, and his fine full presence waned. He never grew in the\nleast stout, so that, as he sank from his erect, assertive bearing, his\nphysique seemed to contract along with his pride and moral strength.\n\nBut now he realised how hard it was for his wife to drag about at her\nwork, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence, hastened forward with\nhis help. He came straight home from the pit, and stayed in at evening\ntill Friday, and then he could not remain at home. But he was back again\nby ten o'clock, almost quite sober.\n\nHe always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose early and had\nplenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wife out of bed\nat six o'clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke, got straight out of\nbed, and went downstairs. When she could not sleep, his wife lay waiting\nfor this time, as for a period of peace. The only real rest seemed to be\nwhen he was out of the house.\n\nHe went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into his\npit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There\nwas always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the first sound in\nthe house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker, as Morel\nsmashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle, which was filled\nand left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knife and fork, all he\nwanted except just the food, was laid ready on the table on a newspaper.\nThen he got his breakfast, made the tea, packed the bottom of the doors\nwith rugs to shut out the draught, piled a big fire, and sat down to an\nhour of joy. He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat\non his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and\ncut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer,\nand was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He\nloathed a fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely\nreached common people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then, in\nsolitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather, on a little\nstool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his food on the fender,\nhis cup on the hearth. And then he read the last night's newspaper--what\nof it he could--spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the\nblinds down and the candle lit even when it was daylight; it was the\nhabit of the mine.\n\nAt a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of bread and butter,\nand put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled his tin bottle with\ntea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drink he preferred for the\npit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and put on his pit-singlet, a vest\nof thick flannel cut low round the neck, and with short sleeves like a\nchemise.\n\nThen he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because she was ill,\nand because it occurred to him.\n\n\"I've brought thee a cup o' tea, lass,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it,\" she replied.\n\n\"Drink it up; it'll pop thee off to sleep again.\"\n\nShe accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take it and sip it.\n\n\"I'll back my life there's no sugar in,\" she said.\n\n\"Yi--there's one big 'un,\" he replied, injured.\n\n\"It's a wonder,\" she said, sipping again.\n\nShe had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved her to grumble\nat him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went, without any\nsort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slices of bread and\nbutter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange was a treat to him.\nHe always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round\nhis neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat, with the big pocket,\nthat carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea, and went forth into\nthe fresh morning air, closing, without locking, the door behind him. He\nloved the early morning, and the walk across the fields. So he appeared\nat the pit-top, often with a stalk from the hedge between his teeth,\nwhich he chewed all day to keep his mouth moist, down the mine, feeling\nquite as happy as when he was in the field.\n\nLater, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he would bustle round\nin his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes, rubbing the fireplace,\nsweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very\nself-righteous, he went upstairs.\n\n\"Now I'm cleaned up for thee: tha's no 'casions ter stir a peg all day,\nbut sit and read thy books.\"\n\nWhich made her laugh, in spite of her indignation.\n\n\"And the dinner cooks itself?\" she answered.\n\n\"Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner.\"\n\n\"You'd know if there weren't any.\"\n\n\"Ay, 'appen so,\" he answered, departing.\n\nWhen she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy, but dirty. She\ncould not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned; so she went down to the\nash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk, spying her, would contrive to have\nto go to her own coal-place at that minute. Then, across the wooden\nfence, she would call:\n\n\"So you keep wagging on, then?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. \"There's nothing else for it.\"\n\n\"Have you seen Hose?\" called a very small woman from across the road. It\nwas Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body, who always wore a\nbrown velvet dress, tight fitting.\n\n\"I haven't,\" said Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful of clothes, an' I'm sure I\nheered his bell.\"\n\n\"Hark! He's at the end.\"\n\nThe two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottoms a\nman stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundles of\ncream- stuff; while a cluster of women held up their arms to\nhim, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heap of creamy,\nundyed stockings hanging over her arm.\n\n\"I've done ten dozen this week,\" she said proudly to Mrs. Morel.\n\n\"T-t-t!\" went the other. \"I don't know how you can find time.\"\n\n\"Eh!\" said Mrs. Anthony. \"You can find time if you make time.\"\n\n\"I don't know how you do it,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"And how much shall you\nget for those many?\"\n\n\"Tuppence-ha'penny a dozen,\" replied the other.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"I'd starve before I'd sit down and seam\ntwenty-four stockings for twopence ha'penny.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said Mrs. Anthony. \"You can rip along with 'em.\"\n\nHose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting at the\nyard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. The\nman, a common fellow, made jokes with them\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": 16384, "chars": 69408, "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 they came into\nits shaded quiet from the exterior sunshine. Marjorie went a little\napart and sat in a pew that gave her a glimpse of the one good\nstained-glass window. Rom followed her, and perceiving her mood to be\nrestful, sat a yard away. Syd began a whispered dispute with her mother\nwhether it wasn't possible to try the organ, and whether Theodore might\nnot be bribed to blow. Daffy discovered relics of a lepers' squint and a\nholy-water stoup, and then went to scrutinize the lettering of the ten\ncommandments of the Mosaic law that shone black and red on gold on\neither side of the I.H.S. monogram behind the white-clothed communion\ntable that had once been the altar. Upon a notice board hung about the\nwaist of the portly pulpit were the numbers of hymns that had been sung\nthree days ago. The sound Protestantism of the vicar had banished\nsuperfluous crosses from the building; the Bible reposed upon the wings\nof a great brass eagle; shining blue and crimson in the window, Saint\nChristopher carried his Lord. What a harmonized synthesis of conflicts a\ncountry church presents! What invisible mysteries of filiation spread\nbetween these ancient ornaments and symbols and the new young minds from\nthe whirlpool of the town that looked upon them now with such bright,\nkeen eyes, wondering a little, feeling a little, missing so much?\n\nIt was all so very cool and quiet now--with something of the immobile\nserenity of death.\n\n\nSec. 5\n\nWhen Mr. Pope had finished his letter to the _Times_, he got out of the\nwindow of the study, treading on a flower-bed as he did so--he was the\nsort of man who treads on flower-beds--partly with the purpose of\nreading his composition aloud to as many members of his family as he\ncould assemble for the purpose, and so giving them a chance of\nappreciating the nuances of his irony more fully than if they saw it\njust in cold print without the advantage of his intonation, and partly\nwith the belated idea of welcoming Marjorie. The law presented a rather\ndiscouraging desolation. Then he became aware that the church tower\nfrothed with his daughters. In view of his need of an audience, he\ndecided after a brief doubt that their presence there was\nunobjectionable, and waved his MS. amiably. Marjorie flapped a\nhandkerchief in reply....\n\nThe subsequent hour was just the sort of hour that gave Mr. Pope an\nalmost meteorological importance to his family. He began with an\namiability that had no fault, except, perhaps, that it was a little\nforced after the epistolary strain in the study, and his welcome to\nMarjorie was more than cordial. \"Well, little Madge-cat!\" he said,\ngiving her an affectionate but sound and heavy thump on the left\nshoulder-blade, \"got a kiss for the old daddy?\"\n\nMarjorie submitted a cheek.\n\n\"That's right,\" said Mr. Pope; \"and now I just want you all to advise\nme----\"\n\nHe led the way to a group of wicker garden chairs. \"You're coming,\nmummy?\" he said, and seated himself comfortably and drew out a spectacle\ncase, while his family grouped itself dutifully. It made a charming\nlittle picture of a Man and his Womankind. \"I don't often flatter\nmyself,\" he said, \"but this time I think I've been neat--neat's the word\nfor it.\"\n\nHe cleared his throat, put on his spectacles, and emitted a long, flat\npreliminary note, rather like the sound of a child's trumpet. \"Er--'Dear\nSir!'\"\n\n\"Rom,\" said Mrs. Pope, \"don't creak your chair.\"\n\n\"It's Daffy, mother,\" said Rom.\n\n\"Oh, _Rom!_\" said Daffy.\n\nMr. Pope paused, and looked with a warning eye over his left\nspectacle-glass at Rom.\n\n\"Don't creak your chair, Rom,\" he said, \"when your mother tells you.\"\n\n\"I was _not_ creaking my chair,\" said Rom.\n\n\"I heard it,\" said Mr. Pope, suavely.\n\n\"It was Daffy.\"\n\n\"Your mother does not think so,\" said Mr. Pope.\n\n\"Oh, all right! I'll sit on the ground,\" said Rom, crimson to the roots\nof her hair.\n\n\"Me too,\" said Daffy. \"I'd rather.\"\n\nMr. Pope watched the transfer gravely. Then he readjusted his glasses,\ncleared his throat again, trumpeted, and began. \"Er--'Dear Sir,'\"\n\n\"Oughtn't it to be simply 'Sir,' father, for an editor?\" said Marjorie.\n\n\"Perhaps I didn't explain, Marjorie,\" said her father, with the calm of\ngreat self-restraint, and dabbing his left hand on the manuscript in his\nright, \"that this is a _private_ letter--a private letter.\"\n\n\"I didn't understand,\" said Marjorie.\n\n\"It would have been evident as I went on,\" said Mr. Pope, and prepared\nto read again.\n\nThis time he was allowed to proceed, but the interruptions had ruffled\nhim, and the gentle stresses that should have lifted the subtleties of\nhis irony into prominence missed the words, and he had to go back and do\nhis sentences again. Then Rom suddenly, horribly, uncontrollably, was\nseized with hiccups. At the second hiccup Mr. Pope paused, and looked\nvery hard at his daughter with magnified eyes; as he was about to\nresume, the third burst its way through the unhappy child's utmost\neffort.\n\nMr. Pope rose with an awful resignation. \"That's enough,\" he said. He\nregarded the pseudo-twin vindictively. \"You haven't the self-control of\na child of six,\" he said. Then very touchingly to Mrs. Pope: \"Mummy,\nshall we try a game of tennis with the New Generation?\"\n\n\"Can't you read it after supper?\" asked Mrs. Pope.\n\n\"It must go by the eight o'clock post,\" said Mr. Pope, putting the\nmasterpiece into his breast pocket, the little masterpiece that would\nnow perhaps never be read aloud to any human being. \"Daffy, dear, do you\nmind going in for the racquets and balls?\"\n\nThe social atmosphere was now sultry, and overcast, and Mr. Pope's\ndecision to spend the interval before Daffy returned in seeing whether\nhe couldn't do something to the net, which was certainly very\nunsatisfactory, did not improve matters. Then, unhappily, Marjorie, who\nhad got rather keen upon tennis at the Carmels', claimed her father's\nfirst two services as faults, contrary to the etiquette of the family.\nIt happened that Mr. Pope had a really very good, hard, difficult,\nsmart-looking serve, whose only defect was that it always went either\ntoo far or else into the net, and so a feeling had been fostered and\nestablished by his wife that, on the whole, it was advisable to regard\nthe former variety as a legitimate extension of a father's authority.\nNaturally, therefore, Mr. Pope was nettled at Marjorie's ruling, and his\nirritation increased when his next two services to Daffy perished in the\nnet. (\"Damn that net! Puts one's eye out.\") Then Marjorie gave him an\nunexpected soft return which he somehow muffed, and then Daffy just\ndropped a return over the top of the net. (Love-game.) It was then\nMarjorie's turn to serve, which she did with a new twist acquired from\nthe eldest Carmel boy that struck Mr. Pope as un-English. \"Go on,\" he\nsaid concisely. \"Fifteen love.\"\n\nShe was gentle with her mother and they got their first rally, and when\nit was over Mr. Pope had to explain to Marjorie that if she returned\nright up into his corner of the court he would have to run backwards\nvery fast and might fall over down the silly <DW72> at that end. She\nwould have to consider him and the court. One didn't get everything out\nof a game by playing merely to win. She said \"All right, Daddy,\" rather\noff-handedly, and immediately served to him again, and he, taken a\nlittle unawares, hit the ball with the edge of his racquet and sent it\nout, and then he changed racquets with Daffy--it seemed he had known all\nalong she had taken his, but he had preferred to say nothing--uttered a\nword of advice to his wife just on her stroke, and she, failing to grasp\nhis intention as quickly as she ought to have done, left the score\nforty-fifteen. He felt better when he returned Marjorie's serve, and\nthen before she could control herself she repeated her new unpleasant\ntrick of playing into the corner again, whereupon, leaping back with an\nagility that would have shamed many a younger man, Mr. Pope came upon\ndisaster. He went spinning down the treacherous <DW72> behind, twisted\nhis ankle painfully and collapsed against the iron railings of the\nshrubbery. It was too much, and he lost control of himself. His\ndaughters had one instant's glimpse of the linguistic possibilities of a\nstrong man's agony. \"I told her,\" he went on as if he had said nothing.\n\"_Tennis!_\"\n\nFor a second perhaps he seemed to hesitate upon a course of action. Then\nas if by a great effort he took his coat from the net post and addressed\nhimself houseward, incarnate Grand Dudgeon--limping.\n\n\"Had enough of it, Mummy,\" he said, and added some happily inaudible\ncomment on Marjorie's new style of play.\n\nThe evening's exercise was at an end.\n\nThe three ladies regarded one another in silence for some moments.\n\n\"I will take in the racquets, dear,\" said Mrs. Pope.\n\n\"I think the other ball is at your end,\" said Daffy....\n\nThe apparatus put away, Marjorie and her sister strolled thoughtfully\naway from the house.\n\n\"There's croquet here too,\" said Daffy. \"We've not had the things out\nyet!\"....\n\n\"He'll play, I suppose.\"\n\n\"He wants to play.\"...\n\n\"Of course,\" said Marjorie after a long pause, \"there's no _reasoning_\nwith Dad!\"\n\n\nSec. 6\n\nCharacter is one of England's noblest and most deliberate products, but\nsome Englishmen have it to excess. Mr. Pope had.\n\nHe was one of that large and representative class which imparts a\ndignity to national commerce by inheriting big businesses from its\nancestors. He was a coach-builder by birth, and a gentleman by education\nand training. He had been to City Merchant's and Cambridge.\n\nThroughout the earlier half of the nineteenth century the Popes had been\nthe princes of the coach-building world. Mr. Pope's great-grandfather\nhad been a North London wheelwright of conspicuous dexterity and\nintegrity, who had founded the family business; his son, Mr. Pope's\ngrandfather, had made that business the occupation of his life and\nbrought it to the pinnacle of pre-eminence; his son, who was Marjorie's\ngrandfather, had displayed a lesser enthusiasm, left the house at the\nworks for a home ten miles away and sent a second son into the Church.\nIt was in the days of the third Pope that the business ceased to expand,\nand began to suffer severely from the competition of an enterprising\nperson who had originally supplied the firm with varnish, gradually\npicked up the trade in most other materials and accessories needed in\ncoach-building, and passed on by almost imperceptible stages to\ndelivering the article complete--dispensing at last altogether with the\nintervention of Pope and Son--to the customer. Marjorie's father had\nsucceeded in the fulness of time to the inheritance this insurgent had\ndamaged.\n\nMr. Pope was a man of firm and resentful temper, with an admiration for\nCato, Brutus, Cincinnatus, Cromwell, Washington, and the sterner heroes\ngenerally, and by nature a little ill-used and offended at things. He\nsuffered from indigestion and extreme irritability. He found himself in\ncontrol of a business where more flexible virtues were needed. The Popes\nbased their fame on a heavy, proud type of vehicle, which the increasing\nluxury and triviality of the age tended to replace by lighter forms of\ncarriage, carriages with diminutive and apologetic names. As these\nlighter forms were not only lighter but less expensive, Mr. Pope with a\npathetic confidence in the loyalty of the better class of West End\ncustomer, determined to \"make a stand\" against them. He was the sort of\nman to whom making a stand is in itself a sombre joy. If he had had to\nchoose his pose for a portrait, he would certainly have decided to have\none foot advanced, the other planted like a British oak behind, the arms\nfolded and the brows corrugated,--making a stand.\n\nUnhappily the stars in their courses and the general improvement of\nroads throughout the country fought against him. The lighter carriages,\nand especially the lighter carriages of that varnish-selling firm, which\nwas now absorbing businesses right and left, prevailed over Mr. Pope's\nresistance. For crossing a mountain pass or fording a river, for driving\nover the scene of a recent earthquake or following a retreating army,\nfor being run away with by frantic horses or crushing a personal enemy,\nthere can be no doubt the Pope carriages remained to the very last the\nbest possible ones and fully worth the inflexible price demanded.\nUnhappily all carriages in a civilization essentially decadent are not\nsubjected to these tests, and the manufactures of his rivals were not\nonly much cheaper, but had a sort of meretricious smartness, a\ndisingenuous elasticity, above all a levity, hateful indeed to the\nspirit of Mr. Pope yet attractive to the wanton customer. Business\ndwindled. Nevertheless the habitual element in the good class customer\ndid keep things going, albeit on a shrinking scale, until Mr. Pope came\nto the unfortunate decision that he would make a stand against\nautomobiles. He regarded them as an intrusive nuisance which had to be\nseen only to be disowned by the landed gentry of England. Rather than\nbuild a car he said he would go out of business. He went out of\nbusiness. Within five years of this determination he sold out the name,\ngood will, and other vestiges of his concern to a mysterious buyer who\nturned out to be no more than an agent for these persistently expanding\nvarnish makers, and he retired with a genuine grievance upon the family\naccumulations--chiefly in Consols and Home Railways.\n\nHe refused however to regard his defeat as final, put great faith in the\napproaching exhaustion of the petrol supply, and talked in a manner that\nshould have made the Automobile Association uneasy, of devoting the\nrest of his days to the purification of England from these aggressive\nmechanisms. \"It was a mistake,\" he said, \"to let them in.\" He became\nmore frequent at his excellent West End club, and directed a certain\nportion of his capital to largely indecisive but on the whole\nunprofitable speculations in South African and South American\nenterprises. He mingled a little in affairs. He was a tough conventional\nspeaker, rich in established phrases and never abashed by hearing\nhimself say commonplace things, and in addition to his campaign against\nautomobiles he found time to engage also in quasi-political activities,\ntaking chairs, saying a few words and so on, cherishing a fluctuating\nhope that his eloquence might ultimately win him an invitation to\ncontest a constituency in the interests of reaction and the sounder\nelements in the Liberal party.\n\nHe had a public-spirited side, and he was particularly attracted by that\nmass of modern legislative proposals which aims at a more systematic\ncontrol of the lives of lower class persons for their own good by their\nbetters. Indeed, in the first enthusiasm of his proprietorship of the\nPope works at East Purblow, he had organized one of those benevolent\nindustrial experiments that are now so common. He felt strongly against\nthe drink evil, that is to say, the unrestricted liberty of common\npeople to drink what they prefer, and he was acutely impressed by the\nfact that working-class families do not spend their money in the way\nthat seems most desirable to upper middle-class critics. Accordingly he\ndid his best to replace the dangerous freedoms of money by that ideal of\nthe social reformer, Payment in Kind. To use his invariable phrase, the\nEast Purblow experiment did \"no mean service\" to the cause of social\nreform. Unhappily it came to an end through a prosecution under the\nTruck Act, that blot upon the Statute Book, designed, it would appear,\neven deliberately to vitiate man's benevolent control of his fellow man.\nThe lessons to be drawn from that experience, however, grew if anything\nwith the years. He rarely spoke without an allusion to it, and it was\nquite remarkable how readily it could be adapted to illuminate a hundred\ndifferent issues in the hospitable columns of the _Spectator_....\n\n\nSec. 7\n\nAt seven o'clock Marjorie found herself upstairs changing into her\napple-green frock. She had had a good refreshing wash in cold soft\nwater, and it was pleasant to change into thinner silk stockings and\ndainty satin slippers and let down and at last brush her hair and dress\nloiteringly after the fatigues of her journey and the activities of her\narrival. She looked out on the big church and the big trees behind it\nagainst the golden quiet of a summer evening with extreme approval.\n\n\"I suppose those birds are rooks,\" she said.\n\nBut Daffy had gone to see that the pseudo-twins had done themselves\njustice in their muslin frocks and pink sashes; they were apt to be a\nlittle sketchy with their less accessible buttons.\n\nMarjorie became aware of two gentlemen with her mother on the lawn\nbelow.\n\nOne was her almost affianced lover, Will Magnet, the humorous writer.\nShe had been doing her best not to think about him all day, but now he\nbecame an unavoidable central fact. She regarded him with an almost\nperplexed scrutiny, and wondered vividly why she had been so excited and\npleased by his attentions during the previous summer.\n\nMr. Magnet was one of those quiet, deliberately unassuming people who do\nnot even attempt to be beautiful. Not for him was it to pretend, but to\nprick the bladder of pretence. He was a fairish man of forty, pale, with\na large protuberant, observant grey eye--I speak particularly of the\nleft--and a face of quiet animation warily alert for the wit's\nopportunity. His nose and chin were pointed, and his lips thin and\nquaintly pressed together. He was dressed in grey, with a low-collared\nsilken shirt showing a thin neck, and a flowing black tie, and he\ncarried a grey felt hat in his joined hands behind his back. She could\nhear the insinuating cadences of his voice as he talked in her mother's\near. The other gentleman, silent on her mother's right, must, she knew,\nbe Mr. Wintersloan, whom Mr. Magnet had proposed to bring over. His\ndress betrayed that modest gaiety of disposition becoming in an artist,\nand indeed he was one of Mr. Magnet's favourite illustrators. He was in\na dark bluish-grey suit; a black tie that was quite unusually broad went\ntwice around his neck before succumbing to the bow, and his waistcoat\nappeared to be of some gaily-patterned orange silk. Marjorie's eyes\nreturned to Mr. Magnet. Hitherto she had never had an opportunity of\nremarking that his hair was more than a little attenuated towards the\ncrown. It was funny how his tie came out under his chin to the right.\n\nWhat an odd thing men's dress had become, she thought. Why did they wear\nthose ridiculous collars and ties? Why didn't they always dress in\nflannels and look as fine and slender and active as the elder Carmel boy\nfor example? Mr. Magnet couldn't be such an ill-shaped man. Why didn't\nevery one dress to be just as beautiful and splendid as\npossible?--instead of wearing queer things!\n\n\"Coming down?\" said Daffy, a vision of sulphur-yellow, appearing in the\ndoorway.\n\n\"Let _them_ go first,\" said Marjorie, with a finer sense of effect. \"And\nTheodore. We don't want to make part of a comic entry with Theodore,\nDaffy.\"\n\nAccordingly, the two sisters watched discreetly--they had to be wary on\naccount of Mr. Magnet's increasingly frequent glances at the\nwindows--and when at last all the rest of the family had appeared below,\nthey decided their cue had come. Mr. Pope strolled into the group, with\nno trace of his recent debacle except a slight limp. He was wearing a\njacket of damson- velvet, which he affected in the country, and\nall traces of his Grand Dudgeon were gone. But then he rarely had Grand\nDudgeon except in the sanctities of family life, and hardly ever when\nany other man was about.\n\n\"Well,\" his daughters heard him say, with a witty allusiveness that was\ndifficult to follow, \"so the Magnet has come to the Mountain again--eh?\"\n\n\"Come on, Madge,\" said Daffy, and the two sisters emerged harmoniously\ntogether from the house.\n\nIt would have been manifest to a meaner capacity than any present that\nevening that Mr. Magnet regarded Marjorie with a distinguished\nsignificance. He had two eyes, but he had that mysterious quality so\nfrequently associated with a bluish-grey iris which gives the effect of\nlooking hard with one large orb, a sort of grey searchlight effect, and\nhe used this eye ray now to convey a respectful but firm admiration in\nthe most unequivocal manner. He saluted Daffy courteously, and then\nallowed himself to retain Marjorie's hand for just a second longer than\nwas necessary as he said--very simply--\"I am very pleased indeed to meet\nyou again--very.\"\n\nA slight embarrassment fell between them.\n\n\"You are staying near here, Mr. Magnet?\"\n\n\"At the inn,\" said Mr. Magnet, and then, \"I chose it because it would be\nnear you.\"\n\nHis eye pressed upon her again for a moment.\n\n\"Is it comfortable?\" said Marjorie.\n\n\"So charmingly simple,\" said Mr. Magnet. \"I love it.\"\n\nA tinkling bell announced the preparedness of supper, and roused the\nothers to the consciousness that they were silently watching Mr. Magnet\nand Marjorie.\n\n\"It's quite a simple farmhouse supper,\" said Mrs. Pope.\n\n\nSec. 8\n\nThere were ducks, green peas, and adolescent new potatoes for supper,\nand afterwards stewed fruit and cream and junket and cheese, bottled\nbeer, Gilbey's Burgundy, and home-made lemonade. Mrs. Pope carved,\nbecause Mr. Pope splashed too much, and bones upset him and made him\nwant to show up chicken in the _Times_. So he sat at the other end and\nrallied his guests while Mrs. Pope distributed the viands. He showed not\na trace of his recent umbrage. Theodore sat between Daffy and his mother\nbecause of his table manners, and Marjorie was on her father's right\nhand and next to Mr. Wintersloan, while Mr. Magnet was in the middle of\nthe table on the opposite side in a position convenient for looking at\nher. Both maids waited.\n\nThe presence of Magnet invariably stirred the latent humorist in Mr.\nPope. He felt that he who talks to humorists should himself be humorous,\nand it was his private persuasion that with more attention he might have\nbeen, to use a favourite form of expression, \"no mean jester.\" Quite a\nlot of little things of his were cherished as \"Good\" both by himself\nand, with occasional inaccuracies, by Mrs. Pope. He opened out now in a\nstrain of rich allusiveness.\n\n\"What will you drink, Mr. Wintersloan?\" he said. \"Wine of the country,\nyclept beer, red wine from France, or my wife's potent brew from the\ngolden lemon?\"\n\nMr. Wintersloan thought he would take Burgundy. Mr. Magnet preferred\nbeer.\n\n    \"I've heard there's iron in the Beer,\n    And I believe it,\"\n\nmisquoted Mr. Pope, and nodded as it were to the marker to score. \"Daffy\nand Marjorie are still in the lemonade stage. Will you take a little\nBurgundy to-night, Mummy?\"\n\nMrs. Pope decided she would, and was inspired to ask Mr. Wintersloan if\nhe had been in that part of the country before. Topography ensued. Mr.\nWintersloan had a style of his own, and spoke of the Buryhamstreet\ndistrict as a \"pooty little country--pooty little hills, with a swirl in\nthem.\"\n\nThis pleased Daffy and Marjorie, and their eyes met for a moment.\n\nThen Mr. Magnet, with a ray full on Marjorie, said he had always been\nfond of Surrey. \"I think if ever I made a home in the country I should\nlike it to be here.\"\n\nMr. Wintersloan said Surrey would tire him, it was too bossy and curly,\ntoo flocculent; he would prefer to look on broader, simpler lines, with\njust a sudden catch in the breath in them--if you understand me?\n\nMarjorie did, and said so.\n\n\"A sob--such as you get at the break of a pinewood on a hill.\"\n\nThis baffled Mr. Pope, but Marjorie took it. \"Or the short dry cough of\na cliff,\" she said.\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Mr. Wintersloan, and having turned a little deliberate\nclose-lipped smile on her for a moment, resumed his wing.\n\n\"So long as a landscape doesn't _sneeze_\" said Mr. Magnet, in that\nirresistible dry way of his, and Rom and Sydney, at any rate, choked.\n\n\"Now is the hour when Landscapes yawn,\" mused Mr. Pope, coming in all\nright at the end.\n\nThen Mrs. Pope asked Mr. Wintersloan, about his route to Buryhamstreet,\nand then Mr. Pope asked Mr. Magnet whether he was playing at a new work\nor working at a new play.\n\nMr. Magnet said he was dreaming over a play. He wanted to bring out the\nmore serious side of his humour, go a little deeper into things than he\nhad hitherto done.\n\n\"Mingling smiles and tears,\" said Mr. Pope approvingly.\n\nMr. Magnet said very quietly that all true humour did that.\n\nThen Mrs. Pope asked what the play was to be about, and Mr. Magnet, who\nseemed disinclined to give an answer, turned the subject by saying he\nhad to prepare an address on humour for the next dinner of the\n_Literati_. \"It's to be a humourist's dinner, and they've made me the\nguest of the evening--by way of a joke to begin with,\" he said with that\ndry smile again.\n\nMrs. Pope said he shouldn't say things like that. She then said \"Syd!\"\nquietly but sharply to Sydney, who was making a disdainful, squinting\nface at Theodore, and told the parlourmaid to clear the plates for\nsweets. Mr. Magnet professed great horror of public speaking. He said\nthat whenever he rose to make an after-dinner speech all the ices he had\never eaten seemed to come out of the past, and sit on his backbone.\n\nThe talk centered for awhile on Mr. Magnet's address, and apropos of\nTests of Humour Mr. Pope, who in his way was \"no mean raconteur,\"\nrelated the story of the man who took the salad dressing with his hand,\nand when his host asked why he did that, replied: \"Oh! I thought it was\nspinach!\"\n\n\"Many people,\" added Mr. Pope, \"wouldn't see the point of that. And if\nthey don't see the point they can't--and the more they try the less they\ndo.\"\n\nAll four girls hoped secretly and not too confidently that their\nlaughter had not sounded hollow.\n\nAnd then for a time the men told stories as they came into their heads\nin an easy, irresponsible way. Mr. Magnet spoke of the humour of the\nomnibus-driver who always dangled and twiddled his badge \"by way of a\njoke\" when he passed the conductor whose father had been hanged, and Mr.\nPope, perhaps, a little irrelevantly, told the story of the little boy\nwho was asked his father's last words, and said \"mother was with him to\nthe end,\" which particularly amused Mrs. Pope. Mr. Wintersloan gave the\nstory of the woman who was taking her son to the hospital with his head\njammed into a saucepan, and explained to the other people in the\nomnibus: \"You see, what makes it so annoying, it's me only saucepan!\"\nThen they came back to the Sense of Humour with the dentist who shouted\nwith laughter, and when asked the reason by his patient, choked out:\n\"Wrong tooth!\" and then Mr. Pope reminded them of the heartless husband\nwho, suddenly informed that his mother-in-law was dead, exclaimed \"Oh,\ndon't make me laugh, please, I've got a split lip....\"\n\n\nSec. 9\n\nThe conversation assumed a less anecdotal quality with the removal to\nthe drawing-room. On Mr. Magnet's initiative the gentlemen followed the\nladies almost immediately, and it was Mr. Magnet who remembered that\nMarjorie could sing.\n\nBoth the elder sisters indeed had sweet clear voices, and they had\nlearnt a number of those jolly songs the English made before the dull\nHanoverians came. Syd accompanied, and Rom sat back in the low chair in\nthe corner and fell deeply in love with Mr. Wintersloan. The three\nmusicians in their green and sulphur-yellow and white made a pretty\ngroup in the light of the shaded lamp against the black and gold\nBroadwood, the tawdry screen, its pattern thin glittering upon darkness,\nand the deep shadows behind. Marjorie loved singing, and forgot herself\nas she sang.\n\n    \"I love, and he loves me again,\n      Yet dare I not tell who;\n    For if the nymphs should know my swain,\n      I fear they'd love him too,\"\n\nshe sang, and Mr. Magnet could not conceal the intensity of his\nadmiration.\n\nMr. Pope had fallen into a pleasant musing; several other ripe old\nyarns, dear delicious old things, had come into his mind that he felt he\nmight presently recall when this unavoidable display of accomplishments\nwas overpast, and it was with one of them almost on his lips that he\nglanced across at his guest. He was surprised to see Mr. Magnet's face\ntransfigured. He was sitting forward, looking up at Marjorie, and he had\ncaught something of the expression of those blessed boys who froth at\nthe feet of an Assumption. For an instant Mr. Pope did not understand.\n\nThen he understood. It was Marjorie! He had a twinge of surprise, and\nglanced at his own daughter as though he had never seen her before. He\nperceived in a flash for the first time that this troublesome, clever,\ndisrespectful child was tall and shapely and sweet, and indeed quite a\nbeautiful young woman. He forgot his anecdotes. His being was suffused\nwith pride and responsibility and the sense of virtue rewarded. He did\nnot reflect for a moment that Marjorie embodied in almost equal\nproportions the very best points in his mother and his mother-in-law,\nand avoided his own more salient characteristics with so neat a\ndexterity that from top to toe, except for the one matter of colour, not\nonly did she not resemble him but she scarcely even alluded to him. He\nthought simply that she was his daughter, that she derived from him,\nthat her beauty was his. She was the outcome of his meritorious\npreparations. He recalled all the moments when he had been kind and\nindulgent to her, all the bills he had paid for her; all the stresses\nand trials of the coach-building collapse, all the fluctuations of his\nspeculative adventures, became things he had faced patiently and\nvaliantly for her sake. He forgot the endless times when he had been\nviciously cross with her, all the times when he had pished and tushed\nand sworn in her hearing. He had on provocation and in spite of her\nmother's protests slapped her pretty vigorously, but such things are\nbetter forgotten; nor did he recall how bitterly he had opposed the\ncollege education which had made her now so clear in eye and thought,\nnor the frightful shindy, only three months since, about that identical\ngreen dress in which she now stood delightful. He forgot these petty\ndetails, as an idealist should. There she was, his daughter. An immense\nbenevolence irradiated his soul--for Marjorie--for Magnet. His eyes were\nsuffused with a not ignoble tenderness. The man, he knew, was worth at\nleast thirty-five thousand pounds, a discussion of investments had made\nthat clear, and he must be making at least five thousand a year! A\nbeautiful girl, a worthy man! A good fellow, a sound good fellow, a\ncareful fellow too--as these fellows went!\n\nOld Daddy would lose his treasure of course.\n\nWell, a father must learn resignation, and he for one would not stand in\nthe way of his girl's happiness. A day would come when, very beautifully\nand tenderly, he would hand her over to Magnet, his favourite daughter\nto his trusted friend. \"Well, my boy, there's no one in all the\nworld----\" he would begin.\n\nIt would be a touching parting. \"Don't forget your old father, Maggots,\"\nhe would say. At such a moment that quaint nickname would surely not be\nresented....\n\nHe reflected how much he had always preferred Marjorie to Daffy. She was\nbrighter--more like him. Daffy was unresponsive, with a touch of\nbitterness under her tongue....\n\nHe was already dreaming he was a widower, rather infirm, the object of\nMagnet's and Marjorie's devoted care, when the song ceased, and the wife\nhe had for the purpose of reveries just consigned so carelessly to the\ncemetery proposed that they should have a little game that every one\ncould play at. A number of pencils and slips of paper appeared in her\nhands. She did not want the girls to exhaust their repertory on this\nfirst occasion--and besides, Mr. Pope liked games in which one did\nthings with pencils and strips of paper. Mr. Magnet wished the singing\nto go on, he said, but he was overruled.\n\nSo for a time every one played a little game in which Mr. Pope was\nparticularly proficient. Indeed, it was rare that any one won but Mr.\nPope. It was called \"The Great Departed,\" and it had such considerable\neducational value that all the children had to play at it whenever he\nwished.\n\nIt was played in this manner; one of the pseudo twins opened a book and\ndabbed a finger on the page, and read out the letter immediately at the\ntip of her finger, then all of them began to write as hard as they\ncould, writing down the names of every great person they could think of,\nwhose name began with that letter. At the end of five minutes Mr. Pope\nsaid Stop! and then began to read his list out, beginning with the first\nname. Everybody who had that name crossed it out and scored one, and\nafter his list was exhausted all the surviving names on the next list\nwere read over in the same way, and so on. The names had to be the names\nof dead celebrated people, only one monarch of the same name of the same\ndynasty was allowed, and Mr. Pope adjudicated on all doubtful cases. It\nwas great fun.\n\nThe first two games were won as usual by Mr. Pope, and then Mr.\nWintersloan, who had been a little distraught in his manner, brightened\nup and scribbled furiously.\n\nThe letter was _D_, and after Mr. Pope had rehearsed a tale of nine and\ntwenty names, Mr. Wintersloan read out his list in that curious voice of\nhis which suggested nothing so much as some mobile drink glucking out of\nthe neck of a bottle held upside down.\n\n\"Dahl,\" he began.\n\n\"Who was Dahl?\" asked Mr. Pope.\n\n\"'Vented dahlias,\" said Mr. Wintersloan, with a sigh. \"Danton.\"\n\n\"Forgot him,\" said Mr. Pope.\n\n\"Davis.\"\n\n\"Davis?\"\n\n\"Davis Straits. Doe.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"John Doe, Richard Roe.\"\n\n\"Legal fiction, I'm afraid,\" said Mr. Pope.\n\n\"Dam,\" said Mr. Wintersloan, and added after a slight pause: \"Anthony\nvan.\"\n\nMr. Pope made an interrogative noise.\n\n\"Painter--eighteenth century--Dutch. Dam, Jan van, his son. Dam,\nFrederich van. Dam, Wilhelm van. Dam, Diedrich van. Dam, Wilhelmina,\nwood engraver, gifted woman. Diehl.\"\n\n\"Who?\"\n\n\"Painter--dead--famous. See Duesseldorf. It's all painters now--all\nguaranteed dead, all good men. Deeds of Norfolk, the aquarellist,\nDenton, Dibbs.\"\n\n\"Er?\" said Mr. Pope.\n\n\"The Warwick Claude, _you_ know. D\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": 16384, "chars": 68775, "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 was\ntalkative, skipped about from duty to duty, wore most of the time a\ngreen shade pulled low over his forehead, and smoked a brown briar pipe.\nHe had a fund of knowledge, piled up in metropolitan journalistic\nexperience, but he was anchored here with a wife and three children,\nafter sailing, no doubt, a chartless sea of troubles, and was glad to\ntalk life and experiences after office hours with almost anybody. It\ntook him from eight in the morning until two in the afternoon to gather\nwhat local news there was, and either write it or edit it. He seemed to\nhave a number of correspondents who sent him weekly batches of news from\nsurrounding points. The Associated Press furnished him with a few minor\nitems by telegraph, and there was a \"patent insides,\" two pages of\nfiction, household hints, medicine ads. and what not, which saved him\nconsiderable time and stress. Most of the news which came to him\nreceived short shrift in the matter of editing. \"In Chicago we used to\ngive a lot of attention to this sort of thing,\" Williams was wont to\ndeclare to anyone who was near, \"but you can't do it down here. The\nreaders really don't expect it. They're looking for local items. I\nalways look after the local items pretty sharp.\"\n\nMr. Burgess took care of the advertising sections. In fact he solicited\nadvertising personally, saw that it was properly set up as the\nadvertiser wanted it, and properly placed according to the convenience\nof the day and the rights and demands of others. He was the politician\nof the concern, the handshaker, the guider of its policy. He wrote\neditorials now and then, or, with Williams, decided just what their\nsense must be, met the visitors who came to the office to see the\neditor, and arbitrated all known forms of difficulties. He was at the\nbeck and call of certain Republican party-leaders in the county; but\nthat seemed natural, for he was a Republican himself by temperament and\ndisposition. He was appointed postmaster once to pay him for some useful\nservices, but he declined because he was really making more out of his\npaper than his postmastership would have brought. He received whatever\ncity or county advertising it was in the power of the Republican leaders\nto give him, and so he did very well. The complications of his political\nrelationships Williams knew in part, but they never troubled that\nindustrious soul. He dispensed with moralizing. \"I have to make a living\nfor myself, my wife and three children. That's enough to keep me going\nwithout bothering my head about other people.\" So this office was really\nrun very quietly, efficiently, and in most ways pleasantly. It was a\nsunny place to work.\n\nWitla, who came here at the end of his eleventh school year and when he\nhad just turned seventeen, was impressed with the personality of\nMr. Williams. He liked him. He came to like a Jonas Lyle who worked at\nwhat might be called the head desk of the composing room, and a certain\nJohn Summers who worked at odd times--whenever there was an extra rush\nof job printing. He learned very quickly that John Summers, who was\nfifty-five, grey, and comparatively silent, was troubled with weak lungs\nand drank. Summers would slip out of the office at various times in the\nday and be gone from five to fifteen minutes. No one ever said anything,\nfor there was no pressure here. What work was to be done was done. Jonas\nLyle was of a more interesting nature. He was younger by ten years,\nstronger, better built, but still a character. He was semi-phlegmatic,\nphilosophic, feebly literary. He had worked, as Eugene found out in the\ncourse of time, in nearly every part of the United States--Denver,\nPortland, St. Paul, St. Louis, where not, and had a fund of\nrecollections of this proprietor and that. Whenever he saw a name of\nparticular distinction in the newspapers he was apt to bring the paper\nto Williams--and later, when they became familiar, to Eugene--and say,\n\"I knew that fellow out in ----. He was postmaster (or what not) at\nX----. He's come up considerably since I knew him.\" In most cases he did\nnot know these celebrities personally at all, but he knew of them, and\nthe echo of their fame sounding in this out-of-the-way corner of the\nworld impressed him. He was a careful reader of proof for Williams in a\nrush, a quick type-setter, a man who stayed by his tasks faithfully. But\nhe hadn't got anywhere in the world, for, after all, he was little more\nthan a machine. Eugene could see that at a glance.\n\nIt was Lyle who taught him the art of type-setting. He demonstrated the\nfirst day the theory of the squares or pockets in a case, how some\nletters were placed more conveniently to the hand than others, why some\nletters were well represented as to quantity, why capitals were used in\ncertain offices for certain purposes, in others not. \"Now on the Chicago\n_Tribune_ we used to italicize the names of churches, boats, books,\nhotels, and things of that sort. That's the only paper I ever knew to do\nthat,\" he remarked. What slugs, sticks, galleys, turnovers, meant, came\nrapidly to the surface. That the fingers would come to recognize weights\nof leads by the touch, that a letter would almost instinctively find its\nway back to its proper pocket, even though you were not thinking, once\nyou became expert, were facts which he cheerfully communicated. He\nwanted his knowledge taken seriously, and this serious attention,\nEugene, because of his innate respect for learning of any kind, was only\ntoo glad to give him. He did not know what he wanted to do, but he knew\nquite well that he wanted to see everything. This shop was interesting\nto him for some little time for this reason, for though he soon found\nthat he did not want to be a type-setter or a reporter, or indeed\nanything much in connection with a country newspaper, he was learning\nabout life. He worked at his desk cheerfully, smiling out upon the\nworld, which indicated its presence to him through an open window, read\nthe curious bits of news or opinion or local advertisements as he set\nthem up, and dreamed of what the world might have in store for him. He\nwas not vastly ambitious as yet, but hopeful and, withal, a little\nmelancholy. He could see boys and girls whom he knew, idling in the\nstreets or on the corner squares; he could see where Ted Martinwood was\ndriving by in his father's buggy, or George Anderson was going up the\nstreet with the air of someone who would never need to work. George's\nfather owned the one and only hotel. There were thoughts in his mind of\nfishing, boating, lolling somewhere with some pretty girl, but alas,\ngirls did not apparently take to him so very readily. He was too shy. He\nthought it must be nice to be rich. So he dreamed.\n\nEugene was at that age when he wished to express himself in ardent\nphrases. He was also at the age when bashfulness held him in reserve,\neven though he were in love and intensely emotional. He could only say\nto Stella what seemed trivial things, and look his intensity, whereas it\nwas the trivial things that were most pleasing to her, not the\nintensity. She was even then beginning to think he was a little strange,\na little too tense for her disposition. Yet she liked him. It became\ngenerally understood around town that Stella was _his_ girl. School day\nmating usually goes that way in a small city or village. He was seen to\ngo out with her. His father teased him. Her mother and father deemed\nthis a manifestation of calf love, not so much on her part, for they\nwere aware of her tendency to hold lightly any manifestation of\naffection on the part of boys, but on his. They thought his\nsentimentalism would soon be wearisome to Stella. And they were not far\nwrong about her. On one occasion at a party given by several high school\ngirls, a \"country post office\" was organized. That was one of those\ngames which mean kissing only. A system of guessing results in a series\nof forfeits. If you miss you must be postmaster, and call someone for\n\"mail.\" _Mail_ means to be kissed in a dark room (where the postmaster\nstands) by someone whom you like or who likes you. You, as postmaster,\nhave authority or compulsion--however you feel about it--to call whom\nyou please.\n\nIn this particular instance Stella, who was caught before Eugene, was\nunder compulsion to call someone to kiss. Her first thought was of him,\nbut on account of the frankness of the deed, and because there was a\nlurking fear in her of his eagerness, the name she felt impelled to\nspeak was Harvey Rutter. Harvey was a handsome boy whom Stella had met\nafter her first encounter with Eugene. He was not as yet fascinating to\nher, but pleasing. She had a coquettish desire to see what he was like.\nThis was her first direct chance.\n\nHe stepped gaily in, and Eugene was at once insane with jealousy. He\ncould not understand why she should treat him in that way. When it came\nto his turn he called for Bertha Shoemaker, whom he admired, and who was\nsweet in a way, but who was as nothing to Stella in his estimation. The\npain of kissing her when he really wanted the other girl was great. When\nhe came out Stella saw moodiness in his eyes, but chose to ignore it. He\nwas obviously half-hearted and downcast in his simulation of joy.\n\nA second chance came to her and this time she called him. He went, but\nwas in a semi-defiant mood. He wanted to punish her. When they met in\nthe dark she expected him to put his arms around her. Her own hands were\nup to about where his shoulders should be. Instead he only took hold of\none of her arms with his hand and planted a chilly kiss on her lips. If\nhe had only asked, \"Why did you?\" or held her close and pleaded with her\nnot to treat him so badly, the relationship might have lasted longer.\nInstead he said nothing, and she grew defiant and she went out gaily.\nThere was a strain of reserve running between them until the party broke\nup and he took her home.\n\n\"You must be melancholy tonight,\" she remarked, after they had walked\ntwo blocks in complete silence. The streets were dark, and their feet\nsounded hollowly on the brick pavement.\n\n\"Oh, I'm feeling all right,\" he replied moodily.\n\n\"I think it's awfully nice at the Weimers', we always have so much fun\nthere.\"\n\n\"Yes, lots of fun,\" he echoed contemptuously.\n\n\"Oh, don't be so cross!\" she flared. \"You haven't any reason for\nfussing.\"\n\n\"Haven't I?\"\n\n\"No, you haven't.\"\n\n\"Well if that's the way you feel about it I suppose I haven't. I don't\nsee it that way.\"\n\n\"Well, it doesn't make any difference to me how you see it.\"\n\n\"Oh, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"No, it doesn't.\" Her head was up and she was angry.\n\n\"Well I'm sure then it doesn't to me.\"\n\nThere was another silence which endured until they were almost home.\n\n\"Are you coming to the sociable next Thursday?\" he inquired. He was\nreferring to a Methodist evening entertainment which, although he cared\nvery little about it, was a convenience as it enabled him to see her and\ntake her home. He was prompted to ask by the fear that an open rupture\nwas impending.\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"I don't think I will.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I don't care to.\"\n\n\"I think you're mean,\" he said reprovingly.\n\n\"I don't care,\" she replied. \"I think you're too bossy. I don't think I\nlike you very much anyhow.\"\n\nHis heart contracted ominously.\n\n\"You can do as you please,\" he persisted.\n\nThey reached her gate. It was his wont to kiss her in the shadow--to\nhold her tight for a few minutes in spite of her protests. Tonight, as\nthey approached, he thought of doing it, but she gave him no chance.\nWhen they reached the gate she opened it quickly and slipped in.\n\"Good-night,\" she called.\n\n\"Good-night,\" he said, and then as she reached her door, \"Stella!\"\n\nIt was open, and she slipped in. He stood in the dark, hurt, sore,\noppressed. What should he do? He strolled home cudgelling his brain\nwhether never to speak to or look at her again until she came to him, or\nto hunt her up and fight it all out with her. She was in the wrong, he\nknew that. When he went to bed he was grieving over it, and when he\nawoke it was with him all day.\n\nHe had been gaining rather rapidly as a student of type-setting, and to\na certain extent of the theory of reporting, and he worked diligently\nand earnestly at his proposed trade. He loved to look out of the window\nand draw, though of late, after knowing Stella so well and coming to\nquarrel with her because of her indifference, there was little heart in\nit. This getting to the office, putting on an apron, and starting in on\nsome local correspondence left over from the day before, or some\ntelegraph copy which had been freshly filed on his hook, had its\nconstructive value. Williams endeavored to use him on some local items\nof news as a reporter, but he was a slow worker and almost a failure at\ngetting all the facts. He did not appear to know how to interview\nanybody, and would come back with a story which needed to be filled in\nfrom other sources. He really did not understand the theory of news, and\nWilliams could only make it partially clear to him. Mostly he worked at\nhis case, but he did learn some things.\n\nFor one thing, the theory of advertising began to dawn on him. These\nlocal merchants put in the same ads. day after day, and many of them did\nnot change them noticeably. He saw Lyle and Summers taking the same ads.\nwhich had appeared unchangingly from month to month in so far as their\nmain features were concerned, and alter only a few words before\nreturning them to the forms. He wondered at the sameness of them, and\nwhen, at last, they were given to him to revise he often wished he could\nchange them a little. The language seemed so dull.\n\n\"Why don't they ever put little drawings in these ads?\" he asked Lyle\none day. \"Don't you think they'd look a little better?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" replied Jonas. \"They look pretty good. These people\naround here wouldn't want anything like that. They'd think it was too\nfancy.\" Eugene had seen and in a way studied the ads. in the magazines.\nThey seemed so much more fascinating to him. Why couldn't newspaper ads.\nbe different?\n\nStill it was never given to him to trouble over this problem.\nMr. Burgess dealt with the advertisers. He settled how the ads were to\nbe. He never talked to Eugene or Summers about them, not always to Lyle.\nHe would sometimes have Williams explain just what their character and\nlayout was to be. Eugene was so young that Williams at first did not pay\nvery much attention to him, but after a while he began to realize that\nthere was a personality here, and then he would explain things,--why\nspace had to be short for some items and long for others, why county\nnews, news of small towns around Alexandria, and about people, was much\nmore important financially to the paper than the correct reporting of\nthe death of the sultan of Turkey. The most important thing was to get\nthe local names right. \"Don't ever misspell them,\" he once cautioned\nhim. \"Don't ever leave out a part of a name if you can help it. People\nare awfully sensitive about that. They'll stop their subscription if you\ndon't watch out, and you won't know what's the matter.\"\n\nEugene took all these things to heart. He wanted to see how the thing\nwas done, though basically it seemed to be a little small. In fact\npeople seemed a little small, mostly.\n\nOne of the things that did interest him was to see the paper put on the\npress and run off. He liked to help lock up the forms, and to see how\nthey were imposed and registered. He liked to hear the press run, and to\nhelp carry the wet papers to the mailing tables and the distributing\ncounter out in front. The paper hadn't a very large circulation but\nthere was a slight hum of life about that time and he liked it. He liked\nthe sense of getting his hands and face streaked and not caring, and of\nseeing his hair tousled, in the mirror. He tried to be useful and the\nvarious people on the paper came to like him, though he was often a\nlittle awkward and slow. He was not strong at this period and his\nstomach troubled him. He thought, too, that the smell of the ink might\naffect his lungs, though he did not seriously fear it. In the main it\nwas interesting but small; there was a much larger world outside, he\nknew that. He hoped to go to it some day; he hoped to go to Chicago.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nEugene grew more and more moody and rather restless under Stella's\nincreasing independence. She grew steadily more indifferent because of\nhis moods. The fact that other boys were crazy for her consideration was\na great factor; the fact that one particular boy, Harvey Rutter, was\npersistently genial, not insistent, really better looking than Eugene\nand much better tempered, helped a great deal. Eugene saw her with him\nnow and then, saw her go skating with him, or at least with a crowd of\nwhich he was a member. Eugene hated him heartily; he hated her at times\nfor not yielding to him wholly; but he was none the less wild over her\nbeauty. It stamped his brain with a type or ideal. Thereafter he knew in\na really definite way what womanhood ought to be, to be really\nbeautiful.\n\nAnother thing it did was to bring home to him a sense of his position in\nthe world. So far he had always been dependent on his parents for food,\nclothes and spending money, and his parents were not very liberal. He\nknew other boys who had money to run up to Chicago or down to\nSpringfield--the latter was nearer--to have a Saturday and Sunday lark.\nNo such gaieties were for him. His father would not allow it, or rather\nwould not pay for it. There were other boys who, in consequence of amply\nprovided spending money, were the town dandies. He saw them kicking\ntheir heels outside the corner book store, the principal loafing place\nof the elite, on Wednesdays and Saturdays and sometimes on Sunday\nevenings preparatory to going somewhere, dressed in a luxury of clothing\nwhich was beyond his wildest dreams. Ted Martinwood, the son of the\nprincipal drygoods man, had a frock coat in which he sometimes appeared\nwhen he came down to the barber shop for a shave before he went to call\non his girl. George Anderson was possessed of a dress suit, and wore\ndancing pumps at all dances. There was Ed Waterbury, who was known to\nhave a horse and runabout of his own. These youths were slightly older,\nand were interested in girls of a slightly older set, but the point was\nthe same. These things hurt him.\n\nHe himself had no avenue of progress which, so far as he could see, was\ngoing to bring him to any financial prosperity. His father was never\ngoing to be rich, anybody could see that. He himself had made no\npractical progress in schoolwork--he knew that. He hated\ninsurance--soliciting or writing, despised the sewing machine business,\nand did not know where he would get with anything which he might like to\ndo in literature or art. His drawing seemed a joke, his writing, or wish\nfor writing, pointless. He was broodingly unhappy.\n\nOne day Williams, who had been watching him for a long time, stopped at\nhis desk.\n\n\"I say, Witla, why don't you go to Chicago?\" he said. \"There's a lot\nmore up there for a boy like you than down here. You'll never get\nanywhere working on a country newspaper.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" said Eugene.\n\n\"Now with me it's different,\" went on Williams. \"I've had my rounds.\nI've got a wife and three children and when a man's got a family he\ncan't afford to take chances. But you're young yet. Why don't you go to\nChicago and get on a paper? You could get something.\"\n\n\"What could I get?\" asked Eugene.\n\n\"Well, you might get a job as type-setter if you'd join the union. I\ndon't know how good you'd be as a reporter--I hardly think that's your\nline. But you might study art and learn to draw. Newspaper artists make\ngood money.\"\n\nEugene thought of his art. It wasn't much. He didn't do much with it.\nStill he thought of Chicago; the world appealed to him. If he could only\nget out of here--if he could only make more than seven or eight dollars\na week. He brooded about this.\n\nOne Sunday afternoon he and Stella went with Myrtle to Sylvia's home,\nand after a brief stay Stella announced that she would have to be going;\nher mother would be expecting her back. Myrtle was for going with her,\nbut altered her mind when Sylvia asked her to stay to tea. \"Let Eugene\ntake her home,\" Sylvia said. Eugene was delighted in his persistent,\nhopeless way. He was not yet convinced that she could not be won to\nlove. When they walked out in the fresh sweet air--it was nearing\nspring--he felt that now he should have a chance of saying something\nwhich would be winning--which would lure her to him.\n\nThey went out on a street next to the one she lived on quite to the\nconfines of the town. She wanted to turn off at her street, but he had\nurged her not to. \"Do you have to go home just yet?\" he asked,\npleadingly.\n\n\"No, I can walk a little way,\" she replied.\n\nThey reached a vacant place--the last house a little distance\nback--talking idly. It was getting hard to make talk. In his efforts to\nbe entertaining he picked up three twigs to show her how a certain trick\nin balancing was performed. It consisted in laying two at right angles\nwith each other and with a third, using the latter as an upright. She\ncould not do it, of course. She was not really very much interested. He\nwanted her to try and when she did, took hold of her right hand to\nsteady her efforts.\n\n\"No, don't,\" she said, drawing her hand away. \"I can do it.\"\n\nShe trifled with the twigs unsuccessfully and was about to let them\nfall, when he took hold of both her hands. It was so sudden that she\ncould not free herself, and so she looked him straight in the eye.\n\n\"Let go, Eugene, please let go.\"\n\nHe shook his head, gazing at her.\n\n\"Please let go,\" she went on. \"You mustn't do this. I don't want you\nto.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because.\"\n\n\"Because why?\"\n\n\"Well, because I don't.\"\n\n\"Don't you like me any more, Stella, really?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't think I do, not that way.\"\n\n\"But you did.\"\n\n\"I thought I did.\"\n\n\"Have you changed your mind?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think I have.\"\n\nHe dropped her hands and looked at her fixedly and dramatically. The\nattitude did not appeal to her. They strolled back to the street, and\nwhen they neared her door he said, \"Well, I suppose there's no use in my\ncoming to see you any more.\"\n\n\"I think you'd better not,\" she said simply.\n\nShe walked in, never looking back, and instead of going back to his\nsister's he went home. He was in a very gloomy mood, and after sitting\naround for a while went to his room. The night fell, and he sat there\nlooking out at the trees and grieving about what he had lost. Perhaps he\nwas not good enough for her--he could not make her love him. Was it that\nhe was not handsome enough--he did not really consider himself good\nlooking--or what was it, a lack of courage or strength?\n\nAfter a time he noticed that the moon was hanging over the trees like a\nbright shield in the sky. Two layers of thin clouds were moving in\ndifferent directions on different levels. He stopped in his cogitations\nto think where these clouds came from. On sunny days when there were\ngreat argosies of them he had seen them disappear before his eyes, and\nthen, marvel of marvels, reappear out of nothingness. The first time he\never saw this it astonished him greatly, for he had never known up to\nthen what clouds were. Afterward he read about them in his physical\ngeography. Tonight he thought of that, and of the great plains over\nwhich these winds swept, and of the grass and trees--great forests of\nthem--miles and miles. What a wonderful world! Poets wrote about these\nthings, Longfellow, and Bryant, and Tennyson. He thought of\n\"Thanatopsis,\" and of the \"Elegy,\" both of which he admired greatly.\nWhat was this thing, life?\n\nThen he came back to Stella with an ache. She was actually gone, and she\nwas so beautiful. She would never really talk to him any more. He would\nnever get to hold her hand or kiss her. He clenched his hands with the\nhurt. Oh, that night on the ice; that night in the sleigh! How wonderful\nthey were! Finally he undressed and went to bed. He wanted to be\nalone--to be lonely. On his clean white pillow he lay and dreamed of the\nthings that might have been, kisses, caresses, a thousand joys.\n\nOne Sunday afternoon he was lying in his hammock thinking, thinking of\nwhat a dreary place Alexandria was, anyhow, when he opened a Chicago\nSaturday afternoon paper, which was something like a Sunday one because\nit had no Sunday edition,--and went gloomily through it. It was as he\nhad always found, full of a subtle wonder, the wonder of the city, which\ndrew him like a magnet. Here was the drawing of a big hotel someone was\ngoing to build; there was a sketch of a great pianist who was coming to\nplay. An account of a new comedy drama; of a little romantic section of\nGoose Island in the Chicago river, with its old decayed boats turned\ninto houses and geese waddling about; an item of a man falling through a\ncoal hole on South Halstead street fascinated him. This last was at\nsixty-two hundred and something and the idea of such a long street\nseized on his imagination. What a tremendous city Chicago must be. The\nthought of car lines, crowds, trains, came to him with almost a yearning\nappeal.\n\nAll at once the magnet got him. It gripped his very soul, this wonder,\nthis beauty, this life.\n\n\"I'm going to Chicago,\" he thought, and got up.\n\nThere was his nice, quiet little home laid out before him. Inside were\nhis mother, his father, Myrtle. Still he was going. He could come back.\n\"Sure I can come back,\" he thought. Propelled by this magnetic power he\nwent in and upstairs to his room, and got a little grip or portmanteau\nhe had. He put in it the things he thought he would immediately need. In\nhis pocket were nine dollars, money he had been saving for some time.\nFinally he came downstairs and stood in the door of the sitting room.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" asked his mother, looking at his solemn\nintrospective face.\n\n\"I'm going to Chicago,\" he said.\n\n\"When?\" she asked, astonished, a little uncertain of just what he meant.\n\n\"Today,\" he said.\n\n\"No, you're joking.\" She smiled unbelievingly. This was a boyish prank.\n\n\"I'm going today,\" he said. \"I'm going to catch that four o'clock\ntrain.\"\n\nHer face saddened. \"You're not?\" she said.\n\n\"I can come back,\" he replied, \"if I want to. I want to get something\nelse to do.\"\n\nHis father came in at this time. He had a little work room out in the\nbarn where he sometimes cleaned machines and repaired vehicles. He was\nfresh from such a task now.\n\n\"What's up?\" he asked, seeing his wife close to her boy.\n\n\"Eugene's going to Chicago.\"\n\n\"Since when?\" he inquired amusedly.\n\n\"Today. He says he's going right now.\"\n\n\"You don't mean it,\" said Witla, astonished. He really did not believe\nit. \"Why don't you take a little time and think it over? What are you\ngoing to live on?\"\n\n\"I'll live,\" said Eugene. \"I'm going. I've had enough of this place. I'm\ngoing to get out.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said his father, who, after all, believed in initiative.\nEvidently after all he hadn't quite understood this boy. \"Got your trunk\npacked?\"\n\n\"No, but mother can send me that.\"\n\n\"Don't go today,\" pleaded his mother. \"Wait until you get something\nready, Eugene. Wait and do a little thinking about it. Wait until\ntomorrow.\"\n\n\"I want to go today, ma.\" He slipped his arm around her. \"Little ma.\" He\nwas bigger than she by now, and still growing.\n\n\"All right, Eugene,\" she said softly, \"but I wish you wouldn't.\" Her boy\nwas leaving her--her heart was hurt.\n\n\"I can come back, ma. It's only a hundred miles.\"\n\n\"Well, all right,\" she said finally, trying to brighten. \"I'll pack your\nbag.\"\n\n\"I have already.\"\n\nShe went to look.\n\n\"Well, it'll soon be time,\" said Witla, who was thinking that Eugene\nmight back down. \"I'm sorry. Still it may be a good thing for you.\nYou're always welcome here, you know.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Eugene.\n\nThey went finally to the train together, he and his father and Myrtle.\nHis mother couldn't. She stayed to cry.\n\nOn the way to the depot they stopped at Sylvia's.\n\n\"Why, Eugene,\" she exclaimed, \"how ridiculous! Don't go.\"\n\n\"He's set,\" said Witla.\n\nEugene finally got loose. He seemed to be fighting love, home ties,\neverything, every step of the way. Finally he reached the depot. The\ntrain came. Witla grabbed his hand affectionately. \"Be a good boy,\" he\nsaid, swallowing a gulp.\n\nMyrtle kissed him. \"You're so funny, Eugene. Write me.\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\nHe stepped on the train. The bell rang. Out the cars rolled--out and on.\nHe looked out on the familiar scenes and then a real ache came to\nhim--Stella, his mother, his father, Myrtle, the little home. They were\nall going out of his life.\n\n\"Hm,\" he half groaned, clearing his throat. \"Gee!\"\n\nAnd then he sank back and tried, as usual, not to think. He must\nsucceed. That's what the world was made for. That was what he was made\nfor. That was what he would have to do....\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nThe city of Chicago--who shall portray it! This vast ruck of life that\nhad sprung suddenly into existence upon the dank marshes of a lake\nshore. Miles and miles of dreary little houses; miles and miles of\nwooden block-paved streets, with gas lamps placed and water mains laid,\nand empty wooden walks set for pedestrians; the beat of a hundred\nthousand hammers; the ring of a hundred thousand trowels! Long,\nconverging lines of telegraph poles; thousands upon thousands of\nsentinel cottages, factory plants, towering smoke stacks, and here and\nthere a lone, shabby church steeple, sitting out pathetically upon\nvacant land. The raw prairie stretch was covered with yellow grass; the\ngreat broad highways of the tracks of railroads, ten, fifteen, twenty,\nthirty, laid side by side and strung with thousands upon thousands of\nshabby cars, like beads upon a string. Engines clanging, trains moving,\npeople waiting at street crossings--pedestrians, wagon drivers, street\ncar drivers, drays of beer, trucks of coal, brick, stone, sand--a\nspectacle of new, raw, necessary life!\n\nAs Eugene began to draw near it he caught for the first time the sense\nand significance of a great city. What were these newspaper shadows he\nhad been dealing with in his reading compared to this vivid, articulate,\neager thing? Here was the substance of a new world, substantial,\nfascinating, different. The handsome suburban station at South Chicago,\nthe first of its kind he had ever seen, took his eye, as the train\nrolled cityward. He had never before seen a crowd of foreigners--working\nmen--and here were Lithuanians, Poles, Czechs, waiting for a local\ntrain. He had never seen a really large factory plant, and here was one,\nand another, and another--steel works, potteries, soap-factories,\nfoundries, all gaunt and hard in the Sunday evening air. There seemed to\nbe, for all it was Sunday, something youthful, energetic and alive about\nthe streets. He noted the streetcars waiting; at one place a small river\nwas crossed on a draw,--dirty, gloomy, but crowded with boats and lined\nwith great warehouses, grain elevators, coal pockets--that architecture\nof necessity and utility. His imagination was fired by this for here was\nsomething that could be done brilliantly in black--a spot of red or\ngreen for ship and bridge lights. There were some men on the magazines\nwho did things like this, only not so vivid.\n\nThe train threaded its way through long lines of cars coming finally\ninto an immense train shed where arc lights were spluttering--a score\nunder a great curved steel and glass roof, where people were hurrying to\nand fro. Engines were hissing; bells clanging raucously. He had no\nrelatives, no soul to turn to, but somehow he did not feel lonely. This\npicture of life, this newness, fascinated him. He stepped down and\nstarted leisurely to the gate, wondering which way he should go. He came\nto a corner where a lamp post already lit blazoned the name Madison. He\nlooked out on this street and saw, as far as the eye could reach, two\nlines of stores, jingling horse cars, people walking. What a sight, he\nthought, and turned west. For three miles he walked, musing, and then as\nit was dark, and he had arranged for no bed, he wondered where he should\neat and sleep. A fat man sitting outside a livery stable door in a\ntilted, cane-seated chair offered a possibility of information.\n\n\"Do you know where I can get a room around here?\" asked Eugene.\n\nThe lounger looked him over. He was the proprietor of the place.\n\n\"There's an old lady living over there at seven-thirty-two,\" he said,\n\"who has a room, I think. She might take you in.\" He liked Eugene's\nlooks.\n\nEugene crossed over and rang a downstairs bell. The door was opened\nshortly by a tall, kindly woman, of a rather matriarchal turn. Her hair\nwas gray.\n\n\"Yes?\" she inquired.\n\n\"The gentleman at the livery stable over there said I might get a room\nhere. I'm looking for one.\"\n\nShe smiled pleasantly. This boy looked his strangeness, his wide-eyed\ninterest, his freshness from the country. \"Come in,\" she said. \"I have a\nroom. You can look at it.\"\n\nIt was a front room--a little bed-room off the one main living room,\nclean, simple, convenient. \"This looks all right,\" he said.\n\nShe smiled.\n\n\"You can have it for two dollars a week,\" she proffered.\n\n\"That's all right,\" he said, putting down his grip. \"I'll take it.\"\n\n\"Have you had supper?\" she asked.\n\n\"No, but I'm going out soon. I want to see the streets. I'll find some\nplace.\"\n\n\"I'll give you something,\" she said.\n\nEugene thanked her, and she smiled. This was what Chicago did to the\ncountry. It took the boys.\n\nHe opened the closed shutters of his window and knelt before it, leaning\non the sill. He looked out idly, for it was all so wonderful. Bright\nlights were burning in store windows. These people hurrying--how their\nfeet sounded--clap, clap, clap. And away east and away west it was all\nlike this. It was all like this everywhere, a great big, wonderful city.\nIt was nice to be here. He felt that now. It was all worth while. How\ncould he have stayed in Alexandria so long! He would get along here.\nCertainly he would. He was perfectly sure of that. He knew.\n\nChicago at this time certainly offered a world of hope and opportunity\nto the beginner. It was so new, so raw; everything was in the making.\nThe long lines of houses and stores were mostly temporary\nmake-shifts--one and two story frame affairs--with here and there a\nthree and four story brick building which spoke of better days to come.\nDown in the business heart which lay between the lake and the river, the\nNorth Side and the South Side, was a region which spoke of a tremendous\nfuture, for here were stores which served\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": 16384, "chars": 65697, "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 remembered the Sabbath day to keep it holy.\n\nAnd the three \"pore benighted heathen\" along with him, if they didn't\nunderstand English words, they should have an object-lesson, and Mac\nwould himself pray the prayers they couldn't utter for themselves. He\njumped up, motioned the Boy to put on more wood, cleared away the\ngranite-ware dishes, filled the bean-pot and set it back to simmer,\nwhile the Colonel got out Mac's Bible and his own Prayer-Book.\n\nThe Boy did his stoking gloomily, reading aright these portents. Almost\neclipsed was joy in this \"find\" of his (for he regarded the precious\nNicholas as his own special property). It was all going to end in\nhis--the Boy's--being hooked in for service. As long as the Esquimaux\nwere there _he_ couldn't, of course, tear himself away. And here was\nthe chance they'd all been waiting for. Here was a native chock-full of\nknowledge of the natural law and the immemorial gospel of the North,\nwho would be gone soon--oh, very soon, if Mac and the Colonel went on\nlike this--and they were going to choke off Nicholas's communicativeness\nwith--a service!\n\n\"It's Sunday, you know,\" says the Colonel to the Prince, laying open\nhis book, \"and we were just going to have church. You are accustomed to\ngoing to church at Holy Cross, aren't you?\"\n\n\"When me kid me go church.\"\n\n\"You haven't gone since you grew up? They still have church there,\ndon't they?\"\n\n\"Oh, Father Brachet, him have church.\"\n\n\"Why don't you go?\"\n\nNicholas was vaguely conscious of threatened disapproval.\n\n\"Me ... me must take up fish-traps.\"\n\n\"Can't you do that another day?\"\n\nIt seemed not to have occurred to Nicholas before. He sat and\nconsidered the matter.\n\n\"Isn't Father Brachet,\" began the Colonel gravely--\"he doesn't like it,\ndoes he, when you don't come to church?\"\n\n\"He take care him church; him know me take care me fish-trap.\"\n\nBut Nicholas saw plainly out of his one eye that he was not growing in\npopularity. Suddenly that solitary organ gleamed with self-justification.\n\n\"Me bring fish to Father Brachet and to Mother Aloysius and the\nSisters.\"\n\nMac and the Colonel exchanged dark glances.\n\n\"Do Mother Aloysius and the Sisters live where Father Brachet does?\"\n\n\"Father Brachet, and Father Wills, and Brother Paul, and Brother\nEtienne, all here.\" The native put two fingers on the floor. \"Big white\ncross in middle\"--he laid down his pipe to personate the\ncross--\"here\"--indicating the other side--\"here Mother Aloysius and the\nSisters.\"\n\n\"I thought,\" says Mac, \"we'd be hearing of a convent convenient.\"\n\n\"Me help Father Brachet,\" observed Nicholas proudly. \"Me show him boys\nhow make traps, show him girls how make mucklucks.\" \"_What_!\" gasps the\nhorrified Mac, \"Father Brachet has got a family?\"\n\n\"Famly?\" inquired Nicholas. \"Kaiomi\"; and he shook his head\nuncertainly.\n\n\"You say Father Brachet has got boys, and\"--as though this were a yet\ndeeper brand of iniquity--\"_girls_?\"\n\nNicholas, though greatly mystified, nodded firmly.\n\n\"I suppose he thinks away off up here nobody will ever know. Oh, these\nJesuits!\"\n\n\"How many children has this shameless priest?\"\n\n\"Father Brachet, him got seventeen boys, and--me no savvy how much\ngirl--twelve girl ... twenty girl ...\"\n\nThe Boy, who had been splitting with inward laughter, exploded at this\njuncture.\n\n\"He keeps a native school, Mac.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Nicholas, \"teach boy make table, chair, potatoes grow--all\nkinds. Sisters teach girl make dinner, wash--all kinds. Heap good\npeople up at Holy Cross.\"\n\n\"Divil a doubt of it,\" says O'Flynn.\n\nBut this blind belauding of the children of Loyola only fired Mac the\nmore to give the heathen a glimpse of the true light. In what darkness\nmust they grope when a sly, intriguing Jesuit (it was well known they\nwere all like that) was for them a type of the \"heap good man\"--a\npriest, forsooth, who winked at Sabbath-breaking because he and his\nneighbouring nuns shared in the spoil!\n\nWell, they must try to have a truly impressive service. Mac and the\nColonel telegraphed agreement on this head. Savages were said to be\nspecially touched by music.\n\n\"I suppose when you were a kid the Jesuits taught you chants and so\non,\" said the Colonel, kindly.\n\n\"Kaiomi,\" answered Nicholas after reflection.\n\n\"You can sing, can't you?\" asks O'Flynn.\n\n\"Sing? No, me dance!\"\n\nThe Boy roared with delight.\n\n\"Why, yes, I never thought of that. You fellows do the songs, and\nNicholas and I'll do the dances.\"\n\nMac glowered angrily. \"Look here: if you don't mind being blasphemous\nfor yourself, don't demoralise the natives.\"\n\n\"Well, I like that! Didn't Miriam dance before the Lord? Why shouldn't\nNicholas and me?\"\n\nThe Colonel cleared his throat, and began to read the lessons for the\nday. The natives sat and watched him closely. They really behaved very\nwell, and the Boy was enormously proud of his new friends. There was a\ngreat deal at stake. The Boy felt he must walk warily, and he already\nregretted those light expressions about dancing before the Lord. All\nthe fun of the winter might depend on a friendly relation between\nPymeut and the camp. It was essential that the Esquimaux should not\nonly receive, but make, a good impression.\n\nThe singing \"From Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand\"\nseemed to please them; but when, after the Colonel's \"Here endeth the\nsecond lesson,\" Mac said, in sepulchral tones, \"Let us pray,\" the\nvisitors seemed to think it was time to go home.\n\n\"No,\" said Mac sternly, \"they mustn't go in the middle of the meeting\";\nand he proceeded to kneel down.\n\nBut Nicholas was putting on his fur coat, and the others only waited to\nfollow him out. The Boy, greatly concerned lest, after all, the visit\nshould end badly, dropped on his knees to add the force of his own\nexample, and through the opening phrases of Mac's prayer the agnostic\nwas heard saying, in a loud stage-whisper, \"Do like me--down! Look\nhere! Suppose you ask us come big feast, and in the middle of your\ndance we all go home--.\n\n\"Oh no,\" remonstrated Nicholas.\n\n\"Very well. These friends o' mine no like man go home in the middle.\nThey heap mad at me when I no stay. You savvy?\"\n\n\"Me savvy,\" says Nicholas slowly and rather depressed.\n\n\"Kneel down, then,\" says the Boy. And first Nicholas, and then the\nothers, went on their knees.\n\nAlternately they looked in the Boy's corner where the grub was, and\nthen over their shoulders at the droning Mac and back, catching the\nBoy's eye, and returning his reassuring nods and grins.\n\nMac, who had had no innings up to this point, was now embarked upon a\nmost congenial occupation. Wrestling with the Lord on behalf of the\nheathen, he lost count of time. On and on the prayer wound its slow\nway; involution after involution, coil after coil, like a snake, the\nBoy thought, lazing in the sun. Unaccustomed knees grew sore.\n\n\"Hearken to the cry of them that walk in darkness, misled by wolves in\nsheep's clothing--_wolves_, Lord, wearing the sign of the Holy Cross--\"\n\nO'Flynn shuffled, and Mac pulled himself up. No light task this of\nconveying to the Creator, in covert terms, a due sense of the iniquity\nof the Jesuits, without, at the same time, stirring O'Flynn's bile, and\nseeing him get up and stalk out of meeting, as had happened once\nbefore.\n\nO'Flynn was not deeply concerned about religious questions, but \"there\nwere limits.\" The problem was how to rouse the Lord without rousing\nO'Flynn--a piece of negotiation so delicate, calling for a skill in\npious invective so infinitely absorbing to Mac's particular cast of\nmind, that he was quickly stone-blind and deaf to all things else.\n\n\"Not all the heathen are sunk in iniquity; but they are weak, tempted,\nand they weary, Lord!\"\n\n\"Amen,\" said the Boy, discreetly. \"How long?\" groaned Mac--\"Oh Lord,\nhow long?\" But it was much longer than he realised. The Boy saw the\nvisitors shifting from one knee to another, and feared the worst. But\nhe sympathised deeply with their predicament. To ease his own legs, he\nchanged his position, and dragged a corner of the sailcloth down off\nthe little pile of provisions, and doubled it under his knees.\n\nThe movement revealed the bag of dried apples within arm's length.\nNicholas was surreptitiously reaching for his coat. No doubt about it,\nhe had come to the conclusion that this was the fitting moment to\ndepart. A look over his shoulder showed Mac absorbed, and taking fresh\nbreath at \"Sixthly, Oh Lord.\" The Boy put out a hand, and dragged the\napple-bag slowly, softly towards him. The Prince dropped the sleeve of\nhis coat, and fixed his one eye on his friend. The Boy undid the neck\nof the sack, thrust in his hand, and brought out a fistfull. Another\nlook at Mac--still hard at it, trying to spare O'Flynn's feelings\nwithout mincing matters with the Almighty.\n\nThe Boy winked at Nicholas, made a gesture, \"Catch!\" and fired a bit of\ndried apple at him, at the same time putting a piece in his own mouth\nto show him it was all right.\n\nNicholas followed suit, and seemed pleased with the result. He showed\nall his strong, white teeth, and ecstatically winked his one eye back\nat the Boy, who threw him another bit and then a piece to each of the\nothers.\n\nThe Colonel had \"caught on,\" and was making horrible frowns at the Boy.\nPotts and O'Flynn looked up, and in dumbshow demanded a share. No? Very\nwell, they'd tell Mac. So the Boy had to feed them, too, to keep them\nquiet. And still Mac prayed the Lord to catch up this slip he had made\nhere on the Yukon with reference to the natives. In the midst of a\npowerful peroration, he happened to open his eyes a little, and they\nfell on the magnificent great sable collar of Prince Nicholas's coat.\n\nWithout any of the usual slowing down, without the accustomed warning\nof a gradual descent from the high themes of heaven to the things of\ncommon earth, Mac came down out of the clouds with a bump, and the\nsudden, business-like \"Amen\" startled all the apple-chewing\ncongregation.\n\nMac stood up, and says he to Nicholas:\n\n\"Where did you get that coat?\"\n\nNicholas, still on his knees, stared, and seemed in doubt if this were\na part of the service.\n\n\"Where did you get that coat?\" repeated Mac.\n\nThe Boy had jumped up nimbly. \"I told you his father has a lot of\nfurs.\"\n\n\"Like this?\"\n\n\"No,\" says Nicholas; \"this belong white man.\"\n\n\"Ha,\" says Mac excitedly, \"I thought I'd seen it before. Tell us how\nyou got it.\"\n\n\"Me leave St. Michael; me got ducks, reindeer meat--oh, _plenty_\nkow-kow! [Footnote: Food] Two sleeps away St. Michael me meet Indian.\nHeap hungry. Him got bully coat.\" Nicholas picked it up off the floor.\n\"Him got no kow-kow. Him say, 'Give me duck, give me back-fat. You take\ncoat, him too heavy.' Me say, 'Yes.'\"\n\n\"But how did he get the coat?\"\n\n\"Him say two white men came down river on big ice.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes--\"\n\n\"Men sick.\" He tapped his forehead. \"Man no sick, he no go down with\nthe ice\"; and Nicholas shuddered. \"Before Ikogimeut, ice jam. Indian\nsee men jump one big ice here, more big ice here, and one... go down.\nIndian\"--Nicholas imitated throwing out a line--\"man tie mahout\nround--but--big ice come--\" Nicholas dashed his hands together, and\nthen paused significantly. \"Indian sleep there. Next day ice hard.\nIndian go little way out to see. Man dead. Him heap good coat,\" he\nwound up unemotionally, and proceeded to put it on.\n\n\"And the other white man--what became of him?\"\n\nNicholas shrugged: \"Kaiomi,\" though it was plain he knew well enough\nthe other lay under the Yukon ice.\n\n\"And that--_that_ was the end of the fellows who went by jeering at\nus!\"\n\n\"We'd better not crow yet,\" said Mac. And they bade Prince Nicholas and\nhis heathen retinue good-bye in a mood chastened not by prayer alone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nHOUSE-WARMING\n\n\"There is a sort of moral climate in a household.\"--JOHN MORLEY.\n\n\nNo idle ceremony this, but the great problem of the dwellers in the\ncountry of the Yukon.\n\nThe Colonel and the Boy made up their minds that, whatever else they\nhad or had not, they would have a warm house to live in. And when they\nhad got it, they would have a \"Blow-out\" to celebrate the achievement.\n\n\"We'll invite Nicholas,\" says the Boy. \"I'll go to Pymeut myself, and\nlet him know we are going to have 'big fire, big feed. Oh, heap big\ntime!'\"\n\nIf the truth were told, it had been a difficult enough matter to keep\naway from Pymeut since the hour Nicholas had vanished in that\ndirection; but until winter quarters were made, and until they were\nproved to be warm, there was no time for the amenities of life.\n\nThe Big Cabin (as it was quite seriously called, in contradistinction\nto the hut of the Trio) consisted of a single room, measuring on the\noutside sixteen feet by eighteen feet.\n\nThe walls of cotton-wood logs soared upward to a level of six feet, and\nthis height was magnificently increased in the middle by the angle of\nthe mildly gable roof. But before the cabin was breast-high the Boy had\nbegun to long for a window.\n\n\"Sorry we forgot the plate-glass,\" says Mac.\n\n\"Wudn't ye like a grrand-piana?\" asks O'Flynn.\n\n\"What's the use of goin' all the way from Nova Scotia to Caribou,\" says\nthe Boy to the Schoolmaster-Miner, \"if you haven't learned the way to\nmake a window like the Indians, out of transparent skin?\"\n\nMac assumed an air of elevated contempt.\n\n\"I went to mine, not to learn Indian tricks.\"\n\n\"When the door's shut it'll be dark as the inside of a cocoa-nut.\"\n\n\"You ought to have thought of that before you left the sunny South,\"\nsaid Potts.\n\n\"It'll be dark all winter, window or no window,\" Mac reminded them.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said the Colonel, \"when the candles give out we'll have\nthe fire-light. Keep all the spruce knots, boys!\"\n\nBut one of the boys was not pleased. The next day, looking for a\nmonkey-wrench under the tarpaulin, he came across the wooden box a\nCalifornia friend had given him at parting, containing a dozen tall\nglass jars of preserved fruit. The others had growled at the extra bulk\nand weight, when the Boy put the box into the boat at St. Michael's,\nbut they had now begun to look kindly on it and ask when it was to be\nopened. He had answered firmly:\n\n\"Not before Christmas,\" modifying this since Nicholas's visit to \"Not\nbefore the House-Warming.\" But one morning the Boy was found pouring\nthe fruit out of the jars into some empty cans.\n\n\"What you up to?\"\n\n\"Wait an' see.\" He went to O'Flynn, who was dish-washer that week, got\nhim to melt a couple of buckets of snow over the open-air campfire and\nwash the fruit-jars clean.\n\n\"Now, Colonel,\" says the Boy, \"bring along that buck-saw o' yours and\nlend a hand.\"\n\nThey took off the top log from the south wall of the cabin, measured a\ntwo-foot space in the middle, and the Colonel sawed out the superfluous\nspruce intervening. While he went on doing the same for the other logs\non that side, the Boy roughly chiselled a moderately flat sill. Then\none after another he set up six of the tall glass jars in a row, and\nshowed how, alternating with the other six bottles turned upside down,\nthe thick belly of one accommodating itself to the thin neck of the\nother, the twelve made a very decent rectangle of glass. When they had\nhoisted up, and fixed in place, the logs on each side, and the big\nfellow that went all across on top; when they had filled the\ninconsiderable cracks between the bottles with some of the mud-mortar\nwith which the logs were to be chinked, behold a double glass window\nfit for a king!\n\nThe Boy was immensely pleased.\n\n\"Oh, that's an old dodge,\" said Mac depreciatingly. \"Why, they did that\nat Caribou!\"\n\n\"Then, why in--Why didn't you suggest it?\"\n\n\"You wait till you know more about this kind o' life, and you won't go\nin for fancy touches.\"\n\nNevertheless, the man who had mined at Caribou seemed to feel that some\ncontribution from him was necessary to offset the huge success of that\nwindow. He did not feel called upon to help to split logs for the roof\nof the Big Cabin, but he sat cutting and whittling away at a little\nshelf which he said was to be nailed up at the right of the Big Cabin\ndoor. Its use was not apparent, but no one dared call it a \"fancy\ntouch,\" for Mac was a miner, and had been to Caribou.\n\nWhen the shelf was nailed up, its maker brought forth out of his\nmedicine-chest a bottle of Perry Davis's Pain-killer.\n\n\"Now at Caribou,\" says he, \"they haven't got any more thermometers\nkicking round than we have here, but they discovered that when Perry\nDavis congeals you must keep a sharp look-out for frost-bite, and when\nPerry Davis freezes solid, you'd better mind your eye and stay in your\ncabin, if you don't want to die on the trail.\" With which he tied a\nstring round Perry Davis's neck, set the bottle up on the shelf, and\nsecured it firmly in place. They all agreed it was a grand advantage to\nhave been to Caribou!\n\nBut Mac knew things that he had probably not learned there, about\ntrees, and rocks, and beasts, and their manners and customs and family\nnames. If there were more than a half-truth in the significant lament\nof a very different man, \"I should be a poet if only I knew the names\nof things,\" then, indeed, Samuel MacCann was equipped to make a mark in\nliterature.\n\nFrom the time he set foot on the volcanic shore of St Michael's Island,\nMac had begun his \"collection.\"\n\nNowadays, when he would spend over \"that truck of his\" hours that might\nprofitably (considering his talents) be employed in helping to fortify\nthe camp against the Arctic winter, his companions felt it little use\nto remonstrate.\n\nBy themselves they got on rapidly with work on the roof, very much\nhelped by three days' unexpectedly mild weather. When the split logs\nhad been marshalled together on each side of the comb, they covered\nthem with dried moss and spruce boughs.\n\nOver all they laid a thick blanket of the earth which had been dug out\nto make a level foundation. The cracks in the walls were chinked with\nmoss and mud-mortar. The floor was the naked ground, \"to be carpeted\nwith skins by-and-by,\" so Mac said; but nobody believed Mac would put a\nskin to any such sensible use.\n\nThe unreasonable mildness of three or four days and the little surface\nthaw, came to an abrupt end in a cold rain that turned to sleet as it\nfell. Nobody felt like going far afield just then, even after game, but\nthey had set the snare that Nicholas told the Boy about on that first\nencounter in the wood. Nicholas, it seemed, had given him a noose made\nof twisted sinew, and showed how it worked in a running loop. He had\nillustrated the virtue of this noose when attached to a pole balanced\nin the crotch of a tree, caught over a horizontal stick by means of a\nsmall wooden pin tied to the snare. A touch at the light end of the\nsuspended pole (where the baited loop dangles) loosens the pin, and the\nheavy end of the pole falls, hanging ptarmigan or partridge in the air.\n\nFor some time after rigging this contrivance, whenever anyone reported\n\"tracks,\" Mac and the Boy would hasten to the scene of action, and set\na new snare, piling brush on each side of the track that the game had\nrun in, so barring other ways, and presenting a line of least\nresistance straight through the loop.\n\nIn the early days Mac would come away from these preparations saying\nwith dry pleasure:\n\n\"Now, with luck, we may get a _Xema Sabinii_,\" or some such fearful\nwildfowl.\n\n\"Good to eat?\" the Boy would ask, having had his disappointments ere\nnow in moments of hunger for fresh meat, when Mac, with the nearest\napproach to enthusiasm he permitted himself, had brought in some\nmiserable little hawk-owl or a three-toed woodpecker to add, not to the\nlarder, but to the \"collection.\"\n\n\"No, you don't _eat_ Sabine gulls,\" Mac would answer pityingly.\n\nBut those snares never seemed to know what they were there for. The\nfirst one was set expressly to catch one of the commonest birds that\nfly--Mac's _Lagopus albus_, the beautiful white Arctic grouse, or at\nthe very least a _Bonasa umbellus_, which, being interpreted, is ruffed\nptarmigan. The tracks had been bird tracks, but the creature that swung\nin the air next day was a baby hare. The Schoolmaster looked upon the\nincident as being in the nature of a practical joke, and resented it.\nBut the others were enchanted, and professed thereafter a rooted\nsuspicion of the soundness of the Schoolmaster's Natural History, which\nnobody actually felt. For he had never yet pretended to know anything\nthat he didn't know well; and when Potts would say something\ndisparaging of Mac's learning behind his back (which was against the\nunwritten rules of the game) the Colonel invariably sat on Potts.\n\n\"Knows a darned sight too much? No, he _don't_, sir; that's just the\nremarkable thing about Mac. He isn't trying to carry any more than he\ncan swing.\"\n\nAt the same time it is to be feared that none of his companions really\nappreciated the pedagogue's learning. Nor had anyone but the Boy\nsympathised with his resolution to make a Collection. What they wanted\nwas eatable game, and they affected no intelligent interest in knowing\nthe manners and customs of the particular species that was sending up\nappetising odours from the pot.\n\nThey even applauded the rudeness of the Boy, who one day responded to\nMac's gravely jubilant \"Look here! I've got the _Parus Hudsonicus_!\"--\n\n\"Poor old man! What do you do for it?\"\n\nAnd when anybody after that was indisposed, they said he might be\nsickening for an attack of Parus Hudsonicus, and in that case it was a\nbad look-out.\n\nWell for Mac that he wouldn't have cared a red cent to impress the\ngreatest naturalist alive, let alone a lot of fellows who didn't know a\ntitmouse from a disease.\n\nMeanwhile work on the Big Cabin had gone steadily forward. From the\noutside it looked finished now, and distinctly imposing. From what were\nleft of the precious planks out of the bottom of the best boat they had\nmade the door--two by four, and opening directly in front of that\nmasterpiece, the rock fireplace. The great stone chimney was the pride\nof the camp and the talk before the winter was done of all \"the Lower\nRiver.\"\n\nSpurred on partly by the increased intensity of the cold, partly by the\nColonel's nonsense about the way they did it \"down South,\" Mac roused\nhimself, and turned out a better piece of masonry for the Big Cabin\nthan he had thought necessary for his own. But everybody had a share in\nthe glory of that fireplace. The Colonel, Potts, and the Boy selected\nthe stone, and brought it on a rude litter out of a natural quarry from\na place a mile or more away up on the bare mountain-side. O'Flynn mixed\nand handed up the mud-mortar, while Mac put in some brisk work with it\nbefore it stiffened in the increasing cold.\n\nEverybody was looking forward to getting out of the tent and into the\nwarm cabin, and the building of the fireplace stirred enthusiasm. It\nwas two and a half feet deep, three and a half feet high, and four feet\nwide, and when furnished with ten-inch hack logs, packed in glowing\nashes and laid one above another, with a roaring good blaze in front of\nbirch and spruce, that fire would take a lot of beating, as the Boy\nadmitted, \"even in the tat-pine Florida country.\"\n\nBut no fire on earth could prevent the cabin from being swept through,\nthe moment the door was opened, by a fierce and icy air-current. The\nlate autumnal gales revealed the fact that the sole means of\nventilation had been so nicely contrived that whoever came in or went\nout admitted a hurricane of draught that nearly knocked him down. Potts\nsaid it took a good half-hour, after anyone had opened the door, to\nheat the place up again.\n\n\"What! You cold?\" inquired the usual culprit. The Boy had come in to\nput an edge on his chopper. \"It's stopped snowin', an' you better come\nalong with me, Potts. Swing an axe for a couple of hours--that'll warm\nyou.\"\n\n\"I've got rheumatism in my shoulder to-day,\" says Potts, hugging the\nhuge fire closer.\n\n\"And you've got something wrong with your eyes, eh, Mac?\"\n\nPotts narrowed his and widened the great mouth; but he had turned his\nhead so Mac couldn't see him.\n\nThe Nova Scotian only growled and refilled his pipe. Up in the woods\nthe Boy repeated the conversation to the Colonel, who looked across at\nO'Flynn several yards away, and said: \"Hush!\"\n\n\"Why must I shut up? Mac's _eyes_ do look rather queer and bloodshot. I\nshould think he'd rather feel we lay it to his eyes than know we're\nafraid he's peterin' out altogether.\"\n\n\"I never said I was afraid--\"\n\n\"No, you haven't _said_ much.\" \"I haven't opened my head about it.\"\n\n\"No, but you've tried hard enough for five or six days to get Mac to\nthe point where he would come out and show us how to whip-saw. You\nhaven't _said_ anything, but you've--you've got pretty dignified each\ntime you failed, and we all know what that means.\"\n\n\"We ought to have begun sawing boards for our bunks and swing-shelf a\nweek back, before this heavy snowfall. Besides, there's enough\nfire-wood now; we're only marking time until--\"\n\n\"Until Mac's eyes get all right. I understand.\"\n\nAgain the Colonel had made a sound like \"Sh!\" and went on swinging his\naxe.\n\nThey worked without words till the Boy's tree came down. Then he\nstopped a moment, and wiped his face.\n\n\"It isn't so cold to-day, not by a long shot, for all Potts's howling\nabout his rheumatics.\"\n\n\"It isn't cold that starts that kind of pain.\"\n\n\"No, siree. I'm not much of a doctor, but I can see Potts's rheumatism\ndoesn't depend on the weather.\"\n\n\"Never you mind Potts.\"\n\n\"I don't mind Potts. I only mind Mac. What's the matter with Mac,\nanyway?\"\n\n\"Oh, he's just got cold feet. Maybe he'll thaw out by-and-by.\"\n\n\"Did you ever think what Mac's like? With that square-cut jaw and\nsawed-off nose, everything about him goin' like this\"--the Boy\ndescribed a few quick blunt angles in the air--\"well, sir, he's the\nlivin' image of a monkey-wrench. I'm comin' to think he's as much like\nit inside as he is out. He can screw up for a prayer-meetin', or he can\nscrew down for business--when he's a mind, but, as Jimmie over there\nsays, 'the divil a different pace can you put him through.' I _like_\nmonkey-wrenches! I'm only sayin' they aren't as limber as willa-trees.\"\n\nNo response from the Colonel, who was making the chips fly. It had cost\nhis great body a good many aches and bruises, but he was a capital\naxeman now, and not such a bad carpenter, though when the Boy said as\nmuch he had answered:\n\n\"Carpenter! I'm just a sort of a well-meanin' wood-butcher\"; and deeply\nhe regretted that in all his young years on a big place in the country\nhe had learnt so little about anything but horses and cattle.\n\nOn the way back to dinner they spoke again of this difficulty of the\nboards. O'Flynn whistled \"Rory O'More\" with his pleasant air of\ndetachment.\n\n\"You and the others would take more interest in the subject,\" said the\nBoy a little hotly, \"if we hadn't let you fellows use nearly all the\nboat-planks for _your_ bunks, and now we haven't got any for our own.\"\n\n\"_Let_ us use 'em! Faith! we had a right to'm.\"\n\n\"To boards out of _our_ boat!\"\n\n\"And ye can have the loan o' the whip-saw to make more, whenever the\nfancy takes ye.\"\n\n\"Loan o' the whip-saw! Why, it's mine,\" says the Colonel.\n\n\"Divil a bit of it, man!\" says O'Flynn serenely. \"Everything we've got\nbelongs to all of us, except a sack o' coffee, a medicine-chest, and a\ndimmi-john. And it's mesilf that's afraid the dimmi-john--\"\n\n\"What's the use of my having bought a whip-saw?\" interrupted the\nColonel, hurriedly. \"What's the good of it, if the only man that knows\nhow to use it--\"\n\n\"Is more taken up wid bein' a guardjin angel to his pardner's\ndimmi-john--\"\n\nThe Colonel turned and frowned at the proprietor of the dimmi-john. The\nBoy had dropped behind to look at some marten tracks in the\nfresh-fallen snow.\n\n\"I'll follow that trail after dinner,\" says he, catching up the others\nin time to hear O'Flynn say:\n\n\"If it wusn't that ye think only a feller that's been to Caribou can\nteach ye annything it's Jimmie O'Flynn that 'ud show ye how to play a\nchune on that same whip-saw.\"\n\n\"Will you show us after dinner?\"\n\n\"Sure I will.\"\n\nAnd he was as good as his word.\n\nThis business of turning a tree into boards without the aid of a\nsaw-mill is a thing many placer-miners have to learn; for, even if they\nare disposed to sleep on the floor, and to do without shelves, they\ncan't do sluicing without sluice-boxes, and they can't make those long,\nnarrow boxes without boards.\n\nSo every party that is well fitted out has a whip-saw.\n\n\"Furrst ye dig a pit,\" O'Flynn had said airily, stretched out before\nthe fire after dinner. \"Make it about four feet deep, and as long as\nye'd like yer boards. When ye've done that I'll come and take a hand.\"\n\nThe little job was not half finished when the light tailed. Two days\nmore of soil-burning and shovelling saw it done.\n\n\"Now ye sling a couple o' saplings acrost the durrt ye've chucked out.\nR-right! Now ye roll yer saw-timber inter the middle. R-right! An' on\neach side ye want a log to stand on. See? Wid yer 'guide-man' on top\nsthradlin' yer timberr, watchin' the chalk-line and doin' the pull-up,\nand the otherr fellerr in the pit lookin' afther the haul-down, ye'll\nbe able to play a chune wid that there whip-saw that'll make the\nserryphims sick o' plain harps.\" O'Flynn superintended it all, and even\nPotts had the curiosity to come out and see what they were up to. Mac\nwas \"kind o' dozin'\" by the fire.\n\nWhen the frame was finished O'Flynn helped to put the trial-log in\nplace, having marked it off with charcoal to indicate inch and a\nquarter planks. Then the Colonel, down in the pit, and O'Flynn on top\nof the frame, took the great two-handled saw between them, and began\nlaboriously, one drawing the big blade up, and the other down,\nvertically through the log along the charcoal line.\n\n\"An' _that's_ how it's done, wid bits of yer arrums and yer back that\nhave niver been called on to wurruk befure. An' whin ye've been at it\nan hour ye'll find it goes betther wid a little blasphemin';\" and he\ngave his end of the saw to the reluctant Potts.\n\nPotts was about this time as much of a problem to his pardners as was\nthe ex-schoolmaster. If the bank clerk had surprised them all by his\nhandiness on board ship, and by making a crane to swing the pots over\nthe fire, he surprised them all still more in these days by an apparent\neclipse of his talents. It was unaccountable. Potts's carpentering,\nPotts's all-round cleverness, was, like \"payrock in a pocket,\" as the\nminers say, speedily worked out, and not a trace of it afterwards to be\nfound.\n\nBut less and less was the defection of the Trio felt. The burly\nKentucky stock-farmer was getting his hand in at \"frontier\" work,\nthough he still couldn't get on without his \"<DW65>,\" as the Boy said,\nslyly indicating that it was he who occupied this exalted post. These\ntwo soon had the bunks made out of the rough planks they had sawed with\nall a green-horn's pains. They put in a fragrant mattress of spring\nmoss, and on that made up a bed of blankets and furs.\n\nMore boards were laboriously turned out to make the great swing-shelf\nto hang up high in the angle of the roof, where the provisions might be\nstored out of reach of possible marauders.\n\nThe days were very short now, bringing only about five hours of pallid\nlight, so little of which struggled through the famous bottle-window\nthat at all hours they depended chiefly on the blaze from the great\nfireplace. There was still a good deal of work to be done indoors,\nshelves to be put up on the left as you entered (whereon the\ngranite-ware tea-service, etc., was kept), a dinner-table to be made,\nand three-legged stools. While these additions--\"fancy touches,\" as the\nTrio called them--were being made, Potts and O'Flynn, although\noccasionally they went out for an hour or two, shot-gun on shoulder,\nseldom brought home anything, and for the most part were content with\ndoing what they modestly considered their share of the cooking and\nwashing. For the rest, they sat by the fire playing endless games of\neuchre, seven-up and bean poker, while Mac, more silent than ever,\nsmoked and read Copps's \"Mining Laws\" and the magazines of the previous\nAugust.\n\nNobody heard much in those days of Caribou. The Colonel had gradually\nslipped into the position of Boss of the camp. The Trio were still just\na trifle afraid of him, and he, on his side, never pressed a dangerous\nissue too far.\n\nBut this is a little to anticipate.\n\nOne bitter gray morning, that had reduced Perry Davis to a solid lump\nof ice, O'Flynn, the Colonel, and the Boy were bringing into the cabin\nthe last of the whip-sawed boards. The Colonel halted and looked\nsteadily up the river.\n\n\"Is that a beast or a human?\" said he.\n\n\"It's a man,\" the Boy decided after a moment--\"no, two men, single\nfile, and--yes--Colonel, it's dogs. Hooray! a dog-team at last!\"\n\n\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": 16384, "chars": 69189, "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 call by the most\noffensive names. But he is a dear, in spite of all, and I quite adore\nhim.\"\n\n\"Perhaps; but life, myself, so many mysteries and problems, upon which\nI have barely turned a dark lantern as yet, interest me far more than\nany man could, unless he were superlative. I have had my disillusions.\"\n\nShe lit another cigarette, and for a few moments looked silently out of\nthe window at the darkening woods beyond the lawn. Flora Thangue\nregarded her with a swelling interest. It was a type of which she had no\nknowledge, evidently not a common type even in the hypothetical land of\nthe free; she had visited New York and Newport and known many Americans.\nTrue, she had never met the provincial type before, but she doubted if\nRosewater had produced a crop of Isabel Otises. What was at the source\nof that cold-blooded frankness, so different from the English fashion of\nalternately speaking out and knowing nothing? Was she merely an\negoist--it ran in the family--or did it conceal much that she had no\nintention of revealing? Her very beauty was of a type rarely seen in the\nAmerica of to-day, prevalent as it may have been a hundred years ago:\nshe looked like a feminine edition of the first group of American\nstatesmen--although black Spanish hair was pulled carelessly over the\nhigh forehead, a heavy coil encircling the head in a long upward sweep,\nand the half-dreaming, half-penetrating regard of the light-blue eyes\nwas softened by a heavy growth of lash. The eyebrows were low and thick,\nthe upper lip was sensitive, quivering sometimes as she talked, but the\nlower was firm and full. It was the brow, the profile, the strength of\ncharacter expressed, the general seriousness of the fine face and head,\nthat made her look like a reversion to the type that gave birth to a\nnation. But Miss Thangue had seen too much of the world to judge any one\nby his inherited shell. She had observed many Americans with fine heads\nand bulging brows concealing practically nothing, insignificant German\nheads whose intellects had terrified her, the romantic Spanish eyes of\nthe most unromantic people in Europe, English pride and an icy mask of\nbreeding guarding from the casual eye the most lawless and ribald\ninstincts. Therefore had she no intention of taking this new specimen on\ntrust, much as she liked her, and she speculated upon her possibilities\nin the friendly silence that had fallen between them. Life is composed\nof individuals and their choruses, and Flora, humorously admitting the\nfact, was far more interested in others than in herself.\n\nOnly in the dense silky masses of her black hair and the almost stolid\nabsence of gesture did the American betray her Spanish ancestry; but how\nmuch of the Spaniard, subtle, patient, vengeful, treacherous, mighty in\npassive resistance and cunning, lay behind those deep fearless blue eyes\nof her New England ancestors? Or was she not Spanish at all, but merely\na higher type of American--or wholly herself? Would Jack, susceptible\nand passionate, a worshipper of beauty down among the roots of his\nabnormal cleverness and egoism, fall in love with her? And what then?\nThe girl, with her strong stern profile against the shadows, her low\nbrooding brows, might wield a power far more dangerous than that of the\naverage fascinating woman, if her will marshalled the rest of her\nfaculties and drove them in a straight line; although the luminous skin\nas polished as ivory, the low full curves and slow graceful movements of\nher figure added a potency that Flora, always an amused observer of men,\nwould have been the last to ignore. Victoria, high-bred, fastidious,\nmocking, yet unmistakably passionate and possibly insurgent, was of\nthat mint of woman about whom men had gone mad since the world began.\nBut this girl, who might be as cold as the moon, or not, looked, in any\ncase, capable of clasping a man's throat with her strong little hand,\nand gently turning his head from east to west. At this point Miss\nThangue rose impatiently and rang a bell. Jack's career was almost at\nthe flood. No woman could submerge his intellect and stupendous\ninterests for more than a moment.\n\n\"Order lights and have your trunks brought up,\" she said. \"I will send\none of the housemaids to help you dress. My room is over on the other\nside of the house--go through that door opposite, and down a corridor\nuntil you come to another long hall and staircase like the one on this\nside. You will find my name on the door. Knock at about a quarter-past\neight and I will go down with you. Vicky may be in an angelic humor and\nshe may not. It depends mainly upon whether Jack condescends to turn up.\nI suppose you know all about him; it would hardly do for you to face him\nand his mother if you didn't. He has travelled quite exhaustively in the\ncolonies and given us some of the most informing literature on that\nsubject that we have. He was out in Africa when the Boer War broke out,\nand once before in India, when there was fighting, volunteered both\ntimes and did brilliant service. He has no end of medals with clasps.\nThen he suddenly went in for politics and announced himself an\nuncompromising Liberal. It nearly killed his grandfather--Lord\nStrathland--for Jack is the one person on earth that he loves as much as\nhimself; and it has alienated many of his relatives on both sides--which\ngave him one more chance to win against terrific odds; he enjoys that\nsort of thing. He had been in but two years when there was a general\nelection, and he has only just got back--he contested three divisions\nbefore he won his seat this time, and he had almost as hard a fight\nbefore. Vicky, who hates the Gwynnes, with the exception of Lord Zeal,\nthe heir, besides believing in Jack as you would in Solomon, has\nsteadily upheld him; and she is a powerful ally--not only one of the\nmost distinguished of the political women, but still turns heads when\nshe chooses, and her game is generally in the cabinet preserves, when it\nis not in the diplomatic. I must run. Put on your most fetching gown.\nJulia Kaye, a detestable little parvenu, is here. Jack is in love with\nher and she has chosen another. It will be a cousinly duty to console\nhim. Then you can turn him over to some one else. Ta, ta!\" Her last\nwords floated back from the depths of the corridor; a clock was striking\nand she had pattered off hastily.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nThe \"Jack,\" whose more distinguished patronymic was so gayly caracolling\ndown the road to posterity, had arrived, and after dressing hastily,\nsought his mother. Her hair was done, her gown laced; she dismissed her\nmaid at once, and while her eyes melted, in the fashion of mothers, she\nembraced her son with something more than maternal warmth: a curious\nsuggestion of relief, of stepping out of her own personality and leaving\nit like a heap of clothes on the floor. This attitude had occasionally\npuzzled her idol, but he was too masculine to analyze. She was his best\nfriend and a delightful person to have for a mother; her soul might be\nher own possession undisturbed. He admired her almost as much as he did\nhimself, and to-night he kissed her fondly and told her gallantly that\nshe was looking even more beautiful than usual.\n\n\"It is all this white after the dead black,\" said Lady Victoria, smiling\nappreciatively. \"I am thankful that prolonged mourning is out of date;\nit made a fright of me and was getting on my nerves.\" She wore no jewels\nsave a high diamond dog-collar and a few sparkling combs in her hair,\nbut she made a superb appearance with the long white sweep of shoulders\nand bust, her brilliant eyes and smart tailed gown of black chiffon and\nIrish lace. Her arms, no longer rounded as when artists had fought to\npaint her, were but half-revealed under floating sleeves, and her fair\ntapering hands were even younger than her face.\n\nShe opened a large black fan and moved it slowly while looking intently\nat her son's bent profile. \"Something has gone wrong,\" she said. \"Have\nyou seen Julia Kaye again?\"\n\n\"No, I was invited to Maundrell Abbey last week, but couldn't manage it,\nof course. And I knew she was to be here. Nothing has gone wrong--but I\nhad rather a shock this morning. I met Zeal at the club. He looks like a\ndeath's head. He vowed he was taking even better care of himself than\nusual, but his chest is bad again. He talked about going to Davos--the\nvery word makes me sick! In the next breath he said he might go out to\nAfrica. Can't you hurry on his marriage?--persuade Carry that it is her\nduty to go with him?\"\n\n\"I should have no difficulty persuading Carry. The rub is with him.\nCompulsory asceticism has bred misogyny, and misogyny scruples. He says\nthat he has sins enough to his account without laying up a reckoning\nwith posterity. If it were not for you I should agree with him. I feel\nlike a conspirator--\"\n\n\"There is no reason why his children should be consumptive. Carry's\nphysique is Wagnerian, and she is just the woman to look after her\nchildren herself. Zeal's health was thrown to the dogs by a weak\nindulgent frivolous mother, and what she left him he disposed of later\nwhen he made as great an ass of himself as might have been expected. He\nis a hypochondriac now and would keep a close watch on his heir's health\nand habits; you may be sure of that. He ought not to be in London\nnow--it is stifling--went up for some business meeting or other--seemed\nto wish to avoid details. I hope to heaven he has not been relieving the\nmonotony of his life by some rotten speculation. I begged him to come\ndown here, but he wouldn't--says that his hand is no longer steady\nenough to hold a gun--it's awful!--worse because I'm not merely fond of\nhim and regretting the possible loss of a good friend--I have felt like\na beast all day. But I can't help it. For God's sake write and persuade\nhim to go to Davos at once--and picture the delights of a pretty and\ndevoted nurse. I feel as if I had ashes in my mouth--and yesterday I was\nso happy!\" he burst out, with the petulance of a child.\n\n\"I will write to-night,\" she said, soothingly. \"He has a very slow form\nof consumption; I have the assurance of his doctors. And at least he has\ncommitted himself with Carry, and announced his intention to marry as\nsoon as a sojourn somewhere has made him feel fit again. You know how\nmuch better he always is when he comes back. Put it out of your mind\nto-night. I want you to be as happy as I am. Everybody is talking of the\nbrilliance of your campaign--\"\n\n\"Much good brilliance will do me if I am to rot in the Upper House!\"\n\n\"Put it out of your mind; don't let apprehension control you for a\nmoment. Believe me, will-power counts in life for more than everything\nelse combined, and if it isn't watched it weakens.\"\n\n\"All right, mummy. You are never so original as when you preach. So\nJulia Kaye came down this afternoon? Talk about will. Mine should be of\npure steel; I have ordered her out of my consciousness these last weeks\nat the point of the bayonet. She has written me exactly three times.\nHowever--those letters were charming,\" he added, with the sudden smile\nthat transfigured his face, routing the overbearing and contemptuous\nexpression that had won him so many enemies; friends and flatterers and\nthe happy circumstances of his life had combined thoroughly to spoil\nhim. \"Do you maintain that will can win a woman?\" he added, sharply.\n\nShe was the woman to laugh outright at such a suggestion. \"No, nor that\nit can uproot love, although it can give it a good shaking and lock it\nin the dark room. I doubt if you love Julia Kaye, but you will find that\nout for yourself. You might bring her to terms by flirting a little with\nyour American cousin--\"\n\n\"My what?\" He opened his eyes as widely as he had ever done when a\nschool-boy.\n\n\"Of course--I forgot you know nothing of her. She wrote me from\nAmbleside--I infer she has been 'doing' England; and as her credentials\nwere unimpeachable I asked her down. She has inherited a part of the\nnorthern estate and was brought up in the neighboring town of\nRosewater--the American names are too silly. She seems quite _comme il\nfaut_ and is remarkably handsome. I detest Americans, as you know, but\nthere certainly is something in blood. I liked her at once. She looks\nclever, and is quite off the type--none of the usual fluff. If she\ndoesn't bore me I shall keep her here for a while.\"\n\n\"I wish you would adopt her,\" he said, fondly. \"I shouldn't be jealous,\nfor I hate to think of you so much alone.\" He rose and kissed her\nlightly on the forehead, experience teaching him to avoid a stray hair\nfrom the carefully built coiffure. \"I'll see if I can waylay Julia on\nthe stairs; she is always late. Keep from eleven to twelve for me\nto-morrow morning. I want to tell you about the campaign. It was a\nglorious fight!\" His eyes sparkled at the memory of it. \"I felt as if\nevery bit of me had never been alive at once before. My opponent was a\nsplendid chap. It meant something to beat him. The other side was in a\nrage!--more than once yelled for half an hour after I took the platform.\nWhen I finished they yelled again for half an hour--to a different\ntune.\" His slight, thin, rather graceless figure seemed suddenly to\nexpand, even to grow taller. Some hidden magnetism burst from him like\nan aura, and his cold pasty face and light gray eyes flamed into\npositive beauty. \"It was glorious! Glorious! I was intoxicated--I could\nhave reeled, little as they suspected it. I wouldn't part for a second\nwith the certainty that I am the biggest figure in young England to-day.\nI hate to sleep and forget it. If I cultivated modesty I should renounce\none of the exquisite pleasures of life. Humility is a superstition. The\nman who doesn't weed it out is an ass. To be young, well-born, with\nmoney enough, a brain instead of a mere intelligence, an essential\nleader of men--Good God! Good God!\" Then he subsided and blushed, jerked\nup his shoulders and laughed. \"Well--I never let myself go to any one\nbut you,\" he said. \"And I won't inflict _you_ any longer.\"\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\n\"I wish the old homes of England had electric lights,\" thought Miss\nOtis, with a sigh.\n\nThere were four candles on the dressing-table, two on the mantel-shelf;\nbeyond the radius of their light the room was barely visible. She\ncarried one of the candles over to the cheval-glass and held it above\nher head, close to her face, low on either side.\n\n\"I feel as if I had been put together by some unpleasant mechanical\nprocess. It is well I am not inordinately vain, but when one puts on a\nnew dress for the first time--\" She shrugged her shoulders hopelessly,\nreplaced the candle, and walked up and down the room swinging the\ntrain--her first--of the charming gown of pale blue satin; patting the\nhair coiled softly about the entire head in a line eminently becoming to\nthe profile, and prolonged by several little curls escaping to the neck.\n\nShe felt happy and excited, her fine almost severe face far more\ngirlishly alive than when she had told her story, provocatively dry, to\nFlora Thangue. She directed an approving glance at the high heels of her\nslippers, which, with her lofty carriage, produced the effect of\nnon-existing inches. She was barely five feet five, but she ranked with\ntall women, her height as unchallenged as the chiselling of her profile.\n\n\"What frauds we all are!\" she thought, with a humor of which she had\nnot vouchsafed Miss Thangue a hint. \"But what is a cunningly made\nslipper on a foot not so small, at the end of a body not quite long\nenough, but an encouraging example of the triumph of art over nature?\nNot the superiority, perhaps, but they are the best of working\npartners.\"\n\nShe sat down and recalled the conversation with her new friend, giving\nan amused little shudder. She had heard much of, and in her travels come\ninto contact with, the cold-blooded frankness of the English elect; with\nwhom it was either an instinct or a pose to manifest their careless\nsense of impregnability. When pressed to give an account of herself the\ndramatic possibilities of the method suddenly appealed to her,\naccompanied by a mischievous desire to outdo them at their own game and\nobserve the effect. She had found herself as absorbed as an actress in a\nnew and congenial role.\n\n\"After all,\" she thought, \"clever women make themselves over in great\npart, uprooting here, adopting there, and as we have so little chance to\n_be_ anything, there is a good deal to be got out of it. If one cannot\nbe a genius one can at least be an artist. I have never had much cause\nto be as direct as stage lightning, but as I enjoyed it I suppose I may\ninfer that even brutal frankness is not foreign to my nature. Perhaps,\nlike father, I am a snob at heart and liked the sensation of a sort of\nartistic alliance with the British aristocracy. Well, if I develop\nsnobbery I can root out that weed--or persuade myself that some other\nmotive is at the base of a disposition to adopt any of the\ncharacteristics of this people: a woman can persuade herself of any\nsophistry she chooses. Not for anything would I be a man. Absolutely to\naccept the facts of life, even the ugly unvarnished fact itself, and at\nthe same time to invent one's own soul-tunes--that is to be a woman and\nfree!\"\n\nA printed square of card-board on her writing-table had informed her\nthat the dinner-hour was half-past eight. She looked at her watch. It\nwas five minutes to the time. Once more she peered into the glass, shook\nout her skirts, then sought a door in a far and dusky corner. It opened\nupon a long dimly lit corridor which led into another at right angles,\nand Isabel presently found herself at the head of a staircase similar to\nthe one on her side of the house. Here, too, the walls were hung with\nportraits and landscapes, and as far down as the eye could follow; but\nafter glancing over them for a moment with the recurring weariness of\none who has seen too many pictures in the hard ways of European travel,\nher eyes lit and lingered on the figure of a young man who stood on the\nlanding, his back to her, examining, with a certain tensity, a canvas on\na level with his eyes.\n\n\"Uncle Hiram--John Elton Cecil Gwynne! What a likeness and what a\ndifference!\"\n\nThe young Englishman's hair, pale in color and very smooth, was worn\nlonger than the fashion, the ends lilting. As he turned slowly at the\nrustle of descending skirts, this eccentricity and his colorless skin\nmade him look the pale student rather than the gallant soldier, the best\nfighter on the hustings that England had seen for five-and-twenty years.\nAs Isabel walked carefully down the slippery stair she veiled her eyes\nto hide the wonder in them. She had expected personality, magnetism, as\na compensation for nature's external economies. His apparent lack of\nboth made him almost repellent, awakened in Isabel a sensation of\nantagonism; and the cool speculation in his light gray eyes merely\naccentuated his general dearth of charm. True he had height--although\nhis carriage was unimposing--his head was large and well-proportioned,\nhis nose and chin salient, but the straight heavy mouth was as\ncontemptuous as a Prussian officer's, and in spite of his grooming he\nlooked old-fashioned, absurdly like the Uncle Hiram who had been a\ncountry lawyer and farmer, and had always worn broadcloth in the hottest\nweather--except, to be sure, when he wore a linen \"duster,\" or sat on\nthe veranda in his shirt-sleeves, his feet on the railing.\n\nHowever, she smiled, and he smiled politely in return, advancing a few\nsteps to meet her. \"I hope you have heard of me,\" she said. \"Your mother\nis so busy--English people are so indifferent to details--I am your\ncousin, Isabel Otis--\"\n\n\"Of course my mother has spoken of you. I am very glad to see you in my\nhouse,\" he added, hospitably. \"Shall I show you the way?\"\n\nHe made no further remark as they descended the darker section of the\nstair, and she could think of nothing to say to him. Nor did she\nparticularly care to think of anything, the American in her resenting\nhis lack of effort. But as they reached the door she paused abruptly.\n\n\"I forgot! Miss Thangue asked me to knock at her door--\"\n\n\"You take us too seriously,\" he said, with a slight sneer. \"Flora has\nevidently forgotten you; she came down a quarter of an hour ago.\"\n\nIsabel lifted her head still higher, annoyed at the angry blood that\nleaped to her face. \"I am afraid I am rather literal,\" she said, with\nmore hauteur than the occasion demanded. \"But perhaps you will tell me\nwhere to go. There seems to be a bewildering number of rooms. After\nthree years of lodgings in Europe, to say nothing of the modest\narchitecture of Rosewater, I feel as if astray in a maze.\"\n\n\"You got that off as if you were a masquerading princess,\" he said, with\na flicker of humor in his eyes. \"Americans generally bluff the other\nway.\" He opened the door. \"We meet here in the hall. There is my mother.\nYou are not obliged to speak to her, you know. We are less formal in\nlife than in novels.\" With this parting shot he left her abruptly and\njoined a small dark woman with a plebeian face, a sensual mouth, and\nmagnificent black eyes.\n\n\"The rude beast!--Julia Kaye, of course.\" But Isabel forgot them both in\nthe novelty of the scene. The square white hall was lit with wax-candles\nand shaded lamps, and filled with the murmur of voices--beautiful\ngowns--the sparkle of jewels. Isabel dismissed the memory of early\ntrials, the long years she had lived in the last three, her philosophic\nresignation to the disillusions and disappointments with which her\nliberty had been pitted; it was her first appearance in the world of\nfashion--which she entered, after all, by a sort of divine right.\nTrepidation was undeveloped in her, and when she had stood for a moment,\nquite aware that her proud and singular beauty had won her instant\nrecognition, she walked over to her hostess.\n\nNo fresh demand was made on her courage. Lady Victoria's earlier mood of\ncolossal indifference had been dissipated by her son's return. She\ngreeted Isabel with a dazzling smile and a winning gesture.\n\n\"Isn't Jack a darling? Isn't he a dear?\" she commanded. \"I have put you\non his left, that you may be sure not to be bored. What hair! That is\n_your_ legacy from Spain. I have the eyes, but I never had a foot of\nhair. I hope you are comfortable. I expect you to remain a week. I am so\nglad that Jack will be here. The place is intolerably dull without him.\"\n\nIsabel, warming to such maternal ardor in a beauty whose years were\nprematurely emphasized by a son as conspicuous as Elton Gwynne, summoned\na few vague words of enthusiasm. She was reproached politely for\nwandering about England for two months before discovering herself to her\nrelatives; then, Lady Victoria's interest waning, she turned to a young\nman, handsome and Saxon and orthodox, and said, casually, \"Jimmy, you\nwill take in Miss Otis.\"\n\nDinner had already been announced. The twain, in complete ignorance of\neach other's identity, walked through a long line of rooms, almost\nunfurnished but for the scowling or smiling dead crowding the walls.\nIsabel decided that she would be as effortless as the English and see\nwhat came of it. The practised instinct of the American girl, added to\nthe excessive hospitality of the Californian, would have led her to put\nher companion immediately at ease, but not only was she fond of\nexperimenting with racial characteristics upon her own hidden\npossibilities, but she was intensely proud, and the English attitude had\nstung her more than once.\n\n\"Why should I please them?\" she thought, contemptuously. \"Let them\nplease me.\"\n\nHer companion betrayed no eagerness to please her; and during the first\nten minutes at table he talked to Gwynne about the late elections.\nEvidently, he too had emerged from the political fray triumphant. Isabel\nsat like a stately picture by Reynolds, and after her slow gaze had\ntravelled over the dark full-length portraits of the kings and queens\nthat had honored Capheaton, it dropped to the more animated faces in the\nforeground. The men were good-looking, with hardly an exception; judging\nby their carriage they might all have been army men, but as every word\nthat floated to the head of the table was political, they possibly had\nfollowed their successful host's example and adopted an equally\nintermittent career. One or two of the women were almost as handsome as\nLady Victoria, with their superb figures, their complexions of claret\nand snow, that blending of high breeding and warm palpitating humanity\none never sees outside of England. But others within Isabel's range were\ntoo haggard for beauty, although one had a Burne-Jones face and her eyes\ngazed beyond the company with an expression that made her seem pure\nspirit; but she too looked tired, delicate, curiously overworked.\n\nOpposite Isabel was a tall buxom young woman of the purest Saxon type,\nwho was talking amiably with the man on her right, and occasionally\nshaking with deep and silent laughter; her intimate casual manner, her\nslight movements, her accentuation, manifestly bred in the bone.\nSuddenly it was borne in upon Isabel's always sensitive consciousness\nthat she was the only haughty and reserved person present, and she felt\nprovincial and laughed frankly at herself. The lady across the table\nclaiming the attention of the host, she turned to her own partner. Her\nblack eyelashes were long, and under their protecting shadow she swept a\nglance at the card above the young man's plate. It was inscribed, \"Lord\nHexam.\" She saw her opportunity and asked, ingenuously:\n\n\"How can you be a member of the House of Commons?\"\n\nHe looked up from his fish and replied, somewhat cuttingly, \"By\ncontesting a borough and getting elected.\"\n\n\"But I thought a peer could not be in the House of Commons.\"\n\n\"He can't.\"\n\n\"Then how can you be?\"\n\n\"I am not a peer.\" He looked very much annoyed.\n\n\"But you are Lord Hexam.\"\n\nHe answered, sulkily: \"I happen to be the son of a peer.\"\n\n\"Are you irritated because I know nothing about you?\" asked Isabel,\ncruelly. \"Do you suppose I have wasted my time in England reading\nBurke?\"\n\n\"No, there are too many sights,\" he replied, more cruelly still.\n\n\"They are far more interesting than most of the people I have met.\" Then\nshe changed her tactics and smiled upon him; and when she smiled she\nshowed a dimple hardly larger than a pin's head at one corner of her\nflexible mouth. For the first time he looked under her eyelashes into\nthe odd blue eyes, with their dilated pupils and black rim edging the\nlight iris. He suddenly realized that she was beautiful, in spite of the\nthree little black moles on her face--he detested moles--and smiled in\nreturn.\n\n\"I am afraid I was rude. But I am really shy, and you quite took it out\nof me. I am more afraid of the American girl than of anything on earth.\"\n\n\"How did you know I was an American?\"\n\n\"By your accent.\" He laughed good-naturedly. \"Now I am even with you.\"\n\n\"Well, you are. Californians pride themselves upon having no accent.\"\n\n\"Oh, it is not nearly so bad as some. But it is there all the same. Not\na twang nor a drawl, but--well--every country has its unmistakable\nstamp.\"\n\n\"Well, I have no desire to be taken for anything but an American,\" she\nsaid, defiantly. \"A Californian, that is. After all, we are quite\ndifferent. But we do have an appalling variety of accents in the United\nStates. I have lived abroad long enough to discover that. When I am an\nold maid I am going to mount the platform and preach the training of the\nvoice in childhood. I have taken a violent dislike to more than one\nclever American man merely because he trailed his voice through his\nnose. I don't mind our vices being criticised as much as our crudities.\"\n\n\"I never before heard an American girl make a remark that indicated the\nleast interest in her country--even when--pardon me--they brag. They\ngenerally give the impression that they don't even know who happens to\nbe the President of the moment. Somehow, you look as if you might.\"\n\n\"I was brought up by a man, and my uncle was a great politician in a\nsmall way. That is to say he was identified with country politics only,\nbut he and my father were everlastingly discussing the national issues.\nOf course you have only met girls from the great cities, where the men\nare too busy making money to take any interest in public affairs. The\nwomen rarely hear them mentioned, practically forget there are such\naffairs--except on the Fourth of July, which they resent as a personal\ngrievance. I have met scores of them in Europe. To know anything of\npolitics they regard as the height of bad form.\"\n\n\"Sometimes I wish that our women would let them alone for a while. That\nis my sister over there,\" indicating the lady with the Burne-Jones face.\n\"She has worn herself to a shadow working for her husband, who is in the\nHouse, and she is heart and soul in politics--which she regards as a\nsort of divine mission. She is on several committees, is far more useful\nto her husband than his secretary, for she has the gift of style--and no\none would accuse Rex of that--and during an election she never rests.\nBesides which, of course she has her little family, the usual number of\nestablishments to look after, and great social pressure. I always\nmaintain that our women are of immense service to us, but many of them\nare physically unfit. I expect to see my sister go to pieces any day,\nand as she is little short of an angel it worries me.\"\n\n\"She does look angelic,\" said Isabel, sympathetically. \"Is that what is\nthe matter with the rest of them?--the thin ones, I mean?\"\n\n\"Generally speaking. The thinnest is my cousin. I went in for a cup of\ntea a week or two before the end of last session. There were several of\nus about the tea-table when a footman entered and muttered something to\nher, and with a vague word of apology she left the room and did not\nreturn for half an hour. I thought the baby must be dying, and was about\nto ring, when she reappeared and remarked that she had been sitting at\nthe telephone listening to a paper her husband had just finished on one\nof the questions before the House. Some of them stand it better.\" He\nindicated a fair beautiful creature with a determined profile and deep\nwomanly figure. \"There is Mrs. Sefton, for instance. She presides at\ncommittee meetings--she is great on colonial politics--for three or four\nhours at a time, and always sails out as fresh as a rose; but she has\nburied her husband and entertains when and whom she chooses. Lady\nCecilia opposite understands politics as well as any woman in England,\nbut does not go in for them--Spence isn't in the House; that may account\nfor it!\"\n\n\"Your fashionable women do not in the least resemble ours,\" said Isabel,\nmeditatively. \"They are far more like the women of our small towns.\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"It sounds paradoxical, but it is more than half true. Say two-thirds;\nthe other third is all in favor of your women, for obvious reasons. But\nthose I speak of, the best women of every small town, are constantly\nactive in civic affairs. Most of the sanitary improvements and the\neducational, all schemes for parks and better streets, come from them.\nThere is no village too small to have its 'Woman's Improvement Club.'\nAnd it is the women that have saved all the historical buildings in the\ncountry from destruction.\"\n\n\"I thought they went in for Browning Societies.\"\n\n\"Doubtless you would scorn really to know anything of American humor.\nPerhaps our comic papers have never heard of the Improvement Clubs, or\nfind nothing in them that is humorous. Not that I would decry the\nBrowning Clubs, nor any literary clubs, however crude. It is all in the\nline of progress. 'Culture' is a tempting morsel for the jokemaker, but\nas an alternative for dull domesticity and the vulgar inanities of\ngossip it is not to be despised.\"\n\n\"By Jove, you are right,\" said Hexam, not without warmth.\n\n\"Is my fair cousin converting you to something?\" asked the host. His\nvoice had been little heard, and he looked sulky.\n\n\"Cousin?\"\n\n\"Yes, he is my cousin,\" said Isabel, with the accent of resignation.\nHexam laughed. Gwynne looked as if the grace of humor had been left out\nof him. Isabel, innocent and impassive, turned her eyelashes upon her\npartner. \"I was quite wild to meet my cousin,\" she went on, in the\ntoneless voice that contrasted so effectively with her occasional\nextravagance of speech; \"and now I find him the precise image of my\nuncle Hiram, who never spoke to me except to say: 'Little girls should\nbe seen and not heard,' or 'Run off to bed now, little one.'\"\n\nWithout repitching her voice she yet infused it with a patronizing\nmasculinity that once more startled Hexam into laughter, and caused a\nsilent convulsion in the massive frame of Lady Cecilia Spence.\n\n\"She knows that was a bit of vengeance,\" thought Isabel. \"But of course,\nmanlike, he'll never suspect it.\" She turned her deep thoughtful gaze\nfull upon her cousin. His eyes were glittering under their heavy lids.\nHe replied, suavely:\n\n\"I hope you will find us more polite--if less picturesque. I cannot\nflatter myself that my likeness to your uncle Hiram extends that far.\n'Precise image'--is not that perhaps a bit of national exaggeration?\"\n\n\"Well, I take that back,\" said Isabel, sweetly. \"But you really might be\nhis son instead of his second cousin.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that accounts for a good many things,\" said Lady Cecilia. \"You\nknow, Jack, I have always said there was something exotic about you. You\nare much too energetic and progressive for this settled old country. If\nyou had been born in America I suppose you would have been president at\nthe earliest moment the constitution permitted.\"\n\nHe hesitated a moment, then delivered himself of a bombshell. \"I was\nborn in America,\" he said.\n\nHis eyes moved slowly from one stupefied face to another. \"As I left at\nthe age of five weeks I can hardly claim that the incident left an\nindelible impress. But the fact remains that I should be eligible for\nthe presidency if I chose to become an American citizen.\"\n\nIsabel looked at her relative with an accession of interest; he had\nsuddenly ceased to be an alien, become in a measure a personal\npossession. \"Come over and try it,\" she said, impulsively. \"_There_ is a\ncareer worth while! A young country as full of promise as of faults!\nThink of the variousness of achievement! England's history is made. If\nyou are all they claim, you might really make history in the United\nStates. If I only had a brother--\" Her eyes were flashing for the first\ntime. \"However--they say you love the fight. It is far more difficult to\nbecome a president of the United States than a prime-minister of\nEngland, for with us family influence counts for nothing.\"\n\n\"I am afraid I\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": 16384, "chars": 63323, "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 any chronicle, came much to be talked of\nthereafter; so that a ballade was writ of it the which beginneth thus:\n\n  'Beltane wrestled in the green\n   With a mighty man,\n   A goodlier bout was never seen\n   Since the world began,'\n\nWhile Beltane was tightening his girdle, swift and sudden Gefroi\nclosed, pinning his arms in a cunning hold, and thrice he swung my\nBeltane from his feet so that many clapped their hands the while the\nsquires and men-at-arms shouted lustily. Only Sir Jocelyn curled the\nlock of hair upon his finger and was silent.\n\nTo him quoth my lord Duke, smiling:\n\n\"Messire, an you be in a mind to wager now, I will lay you this my roan\nstallion 'gainst that suit of triple mail you won at Dunismere joust,\nthat Gefroi breaks thy forester's back within two falls--how say you?\"\n\n\"Sweet my lord, it liketh me beyond telling, thy roan is a peerless\nbeast!\" sighed Sir Jocelyn, and so fell once more to humming his song\nbeneath his breath.\n\nNow Beltane had wrestled oft with strangers in the greenwood and had\nlearned many cunning and desperate holds; moreover, he had learned to\nbide his time; thus, though Gefroi's iron muscles yet pinned his arms,\nhe waited, calm-eyed but with every nerve a-quiver, for that moment\nwhen Gefroi's vicious grip should slacken.\n\nTo and fro the wrestlers swayed, knee to knee and breast to breast,\nfierce and silent and grim. As hath been said, this Gefroi was a very\ncunning fellow, and once and twice, he put forth all his strength\nseeking to use a certain cruel trick whereby many a goodly man had died\nere now; but once, and twice, the hold was foiled, yet feebly and as\nthough by chance, and Gefroi wondered; a third time he essayed it\ntherefore, but, in that moment, sudden and fierce and strong, Beltane\ntwisted in his loosened grasp, found at last the deadly hold he sought,\nand Gefroi wondered no more, for about him was a painful grip that grew\never tighter and more relentless. Now Gefroi's breath grew short and\nlaboured, the muscles stood out on his writhing body in knotted cords,\nbut ever that cruel grip grew more deadly, crushing his spirit and\nrobbing him of his wonted strength. And those about them watched that\nmighty struggle, hushed for wonder of it; even Sir Jocelyn had forgot\nhis lock of hair, and hummed no more.\n\nFor, desperately though he fought and struggled, they saw Gefroi's\ngreat body was bending slowly backward; his eyes stared up, wild and\nbloodshot, into the fierce, set face above him; swaying now, he saw the\nwide ring of faces, the quiver of leaves and the blue beyond, all a-swim\nthrough the mist of Beltane's yellow hair, and then, writhing in\nhis anguish, he turned and buried his teeth in Beltane's naked arm, and\nwith a cunning twist, broke from that deadly grip and staggered free.\n\nStraightway the air was full of shouts and cries, some praising, some\ncondemning, while Gefroi stood with hanging arms and panted. But\nBeltane looking upon his hurt, laughed, short and fierce, and as Gefroi\ncame upon him, stooped and caught him below the loins. Then Beltane the\nstrong, the mighty, put forth his strength and, whirling Gefroi aloft,\nhurled him backwards over his shoulder. So Gefroi the wrestler fell,\nand lay with hairy arms wide-tossed as one that is dead, and for a\nspace no man spake for the wonder of it.\n\n\"By all the Saints, but 'twas a mighty throw!\" sighed Sir Jocelyn,\n\"though alack! sweet my lord, 'twould almost seem my forester hath\nsomething spoiled thy wrestler!\"\n\n\"And is the roan stallion thine\" frowned the Duke, \"and to none would I\nlose him with a fairer grace, for 'twas a good bout as I foretold: yet,\nby the head of St. Martin! meseemeth yon carrion might have done me\nbetter!\" So saying, my lord Duke gave his horse the spur and, as he\npassed the prostrate form of Gefroi, leaned him down and smote the\nwrestler thrice with the whip he held and so rode on, bidding his\nfollowers let him lie.\n\nBut Sir Jocelyn paused to look down at Beltane, who was setting his\ndress in order.\n\n\"Sir forester, thou hast a mighty arm,\" quoth he, \"and thy face liketh\nme well. Here's for thee,\" and tossing a purse to Beltane's feet, he\nrode upon his way.\n\nSo the gay cavalcade passed 'neath the leafy arches, with the jingle of\nbridle and stirrup and the sound of jest and laughter, and was\npresently lost amid the green; only Gefroi the wrestler lay there upon\nhis back and groaned. Then came Beltane and knelt and took his heavy\nhead upon his knee, whereat Gefroi opened his eyes and groaned again.\n\n\"Good fellow,\" said Beltane, \"I had not meant to throw thee so heavily--\"\n\n\"Nay, forester, would it had been a little harder, for a ruined man am\nI this day.\"\n\n\"How so--have you not life?\"\n\n\"I would 'twere death. And I bit you--in the arm, I mind me?\"\n\n\"Aye, 'twas in the arm.\"\n\n\"For that am I heartily sorry, forester. But when a man seeth fame and\nfortune slipping from him--aye, and his honour, I had nigh forgot that--\nfame and fortune and honour, so small a thing as a bite may be\nforgiven?\"\n\n\"I forgive thee--full and freely.\"\n\n\"Spoke like an honest forester,\" said Gefroi, and groaned again. \"The\nfavour of a lord is a slippery thing--much like an eel--quick to\nwriggle away. An hour agone my lord Duke held me in much esteem, while\nnow? And he struck me! On the face, here!\" Slowly Gefroi got him upon\nhis feet, and having donned cap and pourpoint, shook his head and\nsighed; quoth he:\n\n\"Alack! 'tis a ruined man am I this day! Would I had broken thy neck,\nor thou, mine--and so, God den to ye, forester!\" Then Gefroi the\nwrestler turned and plodded on his way, walking slow and with drooping\nhead as one who knoweth not whither he goes, or careth. Now, as he\nwatched, Beltane bethought him of the purse and taking it up, ran after\nGefroi and thrust it into his hand.\n\n\"'Twill help thee to find a new service, mayhap.\" So saying my Beltane\nturned upon his heel and strode away, while Gefroi stood staring wide-eyed\nlong after Beltane was vanished amid the trees.\n\nSo thus it was that Beltane looked his first upon Duke Ivo of\nPentavalon, and thus did he overthrow Gefroi the famous wrestler. And\nbecause of this, many were they, knights and nobles and esquires, who\nsought out Beltane's lonely hut beside the brook, with offers of\nservice, or to try a fall with him. But at their offers Beltane laughed\nand shook his head, and all who came to wrestle he threw upon their\nbacks. And thus my Beltane dwelt within the greenwood, waxing mightier\nday by day.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nHOW LOVE CAME TO BELTANE IN THE GREENWOOD\n\n\nUpon a day Beltane stood at his forge fashioning an axe-head. And,\nhaving tempered it thereafter in the brook, he laid it by, and\nstraightening his back, strode forth into the glade all ignorant of the\neyes that watched him curiously through the leaves. And presently as he\nstood, his broad back set to the bole of a tree, his blue eyes lifted\nheavenwards brimful of dreams, he brake forth into a song he had made,\nlying sleepless upon his bed to do it.\n\nTall and stately were the trees, towering aloft, nodding slumberously\nin the gentle wind; fair were the flowers lifting glad faces to their\nsun-father and filling the air with their languorous perfume; yet\nnaught was there so comely to look upon as Beltane the Smith, standing\nbare-armed in his might, his golden hair crisp-curled and his lifted\neyes a-dream. Merrily the brook laughed and sang among the willows,\nleaping in rainbow-hues over its pebbly bed; sweet piped the birds in\nbrake and thicket, yet of all their music none was there so good to\nhear as the rich tones of Beltane the Smith.\n\nSo thought the Duchess Helen of Mortain where she sat upon her white\npalfrey screened by the thick-budded foliage, seeing nought but this\ngolden-locked singer whose voice thrilled strangely in her ears. And\nwho so good a judge as Helen the Beautiful, whose lovers were beyond\ncount, knights and nobles and princelings, ever kneeling at her haughty\nfeet, ever sighing forth vows of service and adoration, in whose honour\nmany a stout lance had shivered, and many a knightly act been wrought?\nWherefore I say, who so good a judge as the Duchess Helen of Mortain?\nThus Beltane the maker of verses, all ignorant that any heard save the\nbirds in the brake, sang of the glories of the forest-lands. Sang how\nthe flowers, feeling the first sweet promise of spring stirring within\nthem, awoke; and lo! the frost was gone, the warm sun they had dreamed\nof through the long winter was come back, the time of their waiting\npassed away. So, timidly, slowly, they stole forth from the dark,\nunveiling their beauties to their lord the sun and filling the world\nwith the fragrance of their worship.\n\nSomewhat of all this sang Beltane, whiles the Duchess Helen gazed upon\nhim wide-eyed and wondering.\n\nCould this be Beltane the Smith, this tall, gentle-eyed youth, this\nsoft-voiced singer of dreams? Could this indeed be the mighty wrestler\nof whom she had heard so many tales of late, how that he lived an\nanchorite, deep hidden in the green, hating the pomp and turmoil of\ncities, and contemning women and all their ways?\n\nNow, bethinking her of all this, the Duchess frowned for that he was\nsuch a goodly man and so comely to look on, and frowning, mused, white\nchin on white fist. Then she smiled, as one that hath a bright thought,\nand straightway loosed the golden fillet that bound her glowing\ntresses so that they fell about her in all their glory, rippling far\ndown her broidered habit. Then, the song being ended, forth from her\ncover rode the lady of Mortain, and coming close where Beltane leaned\nhim in the shade of the tree, paused of a sudden, and started as one\nthat is surprised, and Beltane turning, found her beside him, yet spake\nnot nor moved.\n\nBreathless and as one entranced he gazed upon her; saw how her long\nhair glowed a wondrous red 'neath the kisses of the dying sun; saw how\nher purpled gown, belted at the slender waist, clung about the beauties\nof her shapely body; saw how the little shoe peeped forth from the\nperfumed mystery of its folds, and so stood speechless, bound by the\nspell of her beauty. Wherefore, at length, she spake to him, low and\nsweet and humble, on this wise:\n\n\"Art thou he whom men call Beltane the Smith?\"\n\nHe answered, gazing at her lowered lashes:\n\n\"I am Beltane the Smith.\"\n\nFor a space she sat grave and silent, then looked at him with eyes that\nlaughed 'neath level brows to see the wonder in his gaze. But anon she\nfalls a-sighing, and braided a tress of hair 'twixt white fingers ere\nshe spoke:\n\n\"'Tis said of thee that thou art a hermit and live alone within these\nsolitudes. And yet--meseemeth--thine eyes are not a hermit's eyes,\nmessire!\"\n\nQuoth Beltane, with flushing cheek and eyes abased:\n\n\"Yet do I live alone, lady.\"\n\n\"Nor are thy ways and speech the ways of common smith, messire.\"\n\n\"Yet smith am I in sooth, lady, and therewithal content.\"\n\nNow did she look on him 'neath drooping lash, sweet-eyed and\nlanguorous, and shook her head, and sighed.\n\n\"Alas, messire, methinks then perchance it may be true that thou, for\nall thy youth, and despite thine eyes, art a mocker of love, a despiser\nof women? And yet--nay--sure 'tis not so?\"\n\nThen did Beltane the strong come nigh to fear, by reason of her fair\nwomanhood, and looked from her to earth, from earth to sky, and, when\nhe would have answered, fell a-stammering, abashed by her wondrous\nbeauty.\n\n\"Nay lady, indeed--indeed I know of women nought--nought of myself, but\nI have heard tell that they be--light-minded, using their beauty but to\nlure the souls of men from high and noble things--making of love a\njest--a sport and pastime--\" But now the Duchess laughed, very soft\nand sweeter, far, to Beltane's thinking than the rippling music of any\nbrook, soever.\n\n\"Aye me, messire anchorite,\" said she smiling yet, \"whence had you this\npoor folly?\"\n\nQuoth Beltane gravely:\n\n\"Lady, 'twas from one beyond all thought wise and learned. A most holy\nhermit--\"\n\n\"A hermit!\" says she, merry-eyed, \"then, an he told thee this, needs\nmust he be old, and cold, and withered, and beyond the age of love,\nknowing nought of women save what memory doth haunt his evil past. But\nyoung art thou and strong, and should love come to thee--as come,\nmethinks, it may, hearken to no voice but the pleading of thine own\ntrue heart. Messire,\" she sighed, \"art very blind, methinks, for you\nsing the wonders of these forest-lands, yet in thy song is never a word\nof love! O blind! O blind! for I tell thee nought exists in this great\nworld but by love. Behold now, these sighing trees love their lord the\nsun, and, through the drear winter, wait his coming with wide-stretched,\nyearning arms, crying aloud to him in every shuddering blast the tale\nof their great longing. And, after some while, he comes, and at his advent\nthey clothe themselves anew in all their beauty, and with his warm breath\nthrilling through each fibre, put forth their buds, singing through\nall their myriad leaves the song of their rejoicing. Something the like\nof this, messire, is the love a woman beareth to a man, the which, until\nhe hath felt it trembling in his heart, he hath not known the joy of\nliving.\"\n\nBut Beltane answered, smiling a little as one that gloried in his\nfreedom:\n\n\"No woman hath ever touched my heart, yet have I lived nor found it\nlonely, hitherto.\"\n\nBut hereupon, resting her white fingers on his arm, she leaned nearer\nto him so that he felt her breath warm upon his cheek, and there stole\nto him the faint, sweet perfume of her hair.\n\n\"Beware, O scorner of women! for I tell thee that ere much time hath\npassed thou shalt know love--aye, in such fashion as few men know--\nwherefore I say--beware, Beltane!\"\n\nBut Beltane the strong, the mighty, shook his head and smiled.\n\n\"Nay,\" quoth he, \"a man's heart may be set on other things, flowers may\nseem to him fairer than the fairest women, and the wind in trees\nsweeter to him than their voices.\"\n\nNow as she hearkened, the Duchess Helen grew angry, yet straightway,\nshe dissembled, looking upon him 'neath drooping lashes. Soft and\ntender-eyed and sighing, she answered:\n\n\"Ah, Beltane! how unworthy are such things of a man's love! For if he\npluck them, that he may lay these flowers upon his heart, lo! they fade\nand wither, and their beauty and fragrance is but a memory. Ah,\nBeltane, when next ye sing, choose you a worthier theme.\"\n\n\"Of what shall I sing?\" said Beltane.\n\nVery soft she answered, and with eyes abased:\n\n\"Think on what I have told thee, and sing--of love.\"\n\nAnd so she sighed, and looked on him once, then wheeled her palfrey,\nand was gone up the glade; but Beltane, as he watched her go, was\nseized of a sudden impulse and over-took her, running.\n\n\"Beseech thee,\" cried he, barring her path, \"tell me thy name!\"\n\nThen Helen the Beautiful, the wilful, laughed and swerved her palfrey,\nminded to leave him so; but Beltane sprang and caught the bridle.\n\n\"Tell me thy name,\" said he again.\n\n\"Let me go!\"\n\n\"Thy name, tell me thy name.\"\n\nBut the Duchess laughed again, and thinking to escape him, smote her\nhorse so that it started and reared; once it plunged, and twice, and so\nstood trembling with Beltane's hand upon the bridle; wherefore a sudden\nanger came upon her, and, bending her black brows, she raised her\njewelled riding-rod threateningly. But Beltane only smiled and shook\nhis head, saying:\n\n\"Unless I know thy name thou shalt not fare forth of the greenwood.\"\n\nSo the proud lady of Mortain looked down upon Beltane in amaze, for\nthere was none in all the Duchy, knight, noble or princeling, who dared\ngainsay her lightest word; wherefore, I say, she stared upon this bold\nforest knave with his golden hair and gentle eyes, his curved lips and\nsquare chin; and in eyes and mouth and chin was a look of\nmasterfulness, challenging, commanding. And, meeting that look, her\nheart leapt most strangely with sudden, sweet thrill, so that she\nlowered her gaze lest he should see, and when she spake her voice was\nlow and very sweet:\n\n\"Tell me I pray, why seek you my name, and wherefore?\"\n\nQuoth Beltane, soft and slow as one that dreams:\n\n\"I have seen thine eyes look at me from the flowers, ere now, have\nheard thy laughter in the brook, and found thy beauty in all fair\nthings: methinks thy name should be a most sweet name.\"\n\nNow was it upon her lips to tell him what he asked, but, being a woman,\nshe held her peace for very contrariness, and blushing beneath his\ngaze, looked down and cried aloud, and pointed to a grub that crawled\nupon her habit. So Beltane loosed the bridle, and in that moment, she\nlaughed for very triumph and was off, galloping 'neath the trees. Yet,\nas she went, she turned and called to him, and the word she called\nwas:--\n\n\"Helen!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nOF THE LOVE AND THE GRIEF OF HELEN THE PROUD\n\n\nLong stood Beltane where she had left him, the soft shadows of night\ndeepening about him, dreaming ever of her beauty, of her wondrous hair,\nand of the little foot that had peeped forth at him 'neath her habit,\nand, full of these thoughts, for once he was deaf to the soft voices of\nthe trees nor heard the merry chatter of the brook. But later, upon his\nbed he lay awake full long and must needs remember yet another Helen,\nwith the same wondrous hair and eyes of mystery, for whose sake men had\ndied and a noble city burned; and, hereupon, his heart grew strangely\nheavy and cold with an unknown dread.\n\nDays came and went, and labouring at the forge or lying out in the\nsunshine gazing wistfully beyond the swaying tree-tops, Beltane would\noft start and turn his head, fancying the rustle of her garments in\nhis ears, or her voice calling to him from some flowery thicket; and\nthe wind in the trees whispered \"Helen!\" and the brook sang of Helen,\nand Helen was in his thoughts continually.\n\nThus my Beltane forgot his loves the flowers, and sang no more the\nwonders of the forest-lands.\n\nAnd oft-times the Duchess, seated in state within her great hall of\nMortain looking down upon her knights and nobles, would sigh, for none\nwas there so noble of form nor so comely as Beltane the Smith. Hereupon\nher white brow would grow troubled and, turning from them all, she\nwould gaze with deep, unfathomable eyes, away across the valley to\nwhere, amid the mystery of the trees, Beltane had his lonely dwelling.\n\nWherefore it was, that, looking up one evening from where he sat busied\nwith brush and colours upon a border of wondrous design, Beltane beheld\nher of whom he was dreaming; and she, standing tall and fair before\nhim, saw that in his look the which set her heart a-fluttering at her\nwhite breast most strangely; yet, fearing she should betray aught of\nit, she laughed gaily and mocked him, as is the way of women, saying:\n\n\"Well, thou despiser of Love, I hearkened vainly for thy new song as I\nrode hither through the green.\"\n\nRed grew my Beltane's cheek and he looked not to her as he answered:\n\n\"Lady, I have no new song.\"\n\n\"Why then, is thy lesson yet unlearned?\" said she. \"Have ye no love but\nfor birds and flowers?\" and her red lip curled scornfully.\n\nQuoth Beltane:\n\n\"Is there aught more worthy?\"\n\n\"O Beltane!\" she sighed, \"art then so simple that such will aye content\nthee; doth not thy heart hunger and cry within thee for aught beside?\"\n\nThen Beltane bowed his head, and fumbled with his brush and dropped it,\nand ere he could reach it she had set her foot upon it; thus it chanced\nthat his hand came upon her foot, and feeling it beneath his fingers,\nhe started and drew away, whereat she laughed low and sweet, saying:\n\n\"Alack, and doth my foot affright thee? And yet 'tis none so fierce and\nnone so large that thou shouldst fear it thus, messire--thou who art so\ntall and strong, and a mighty wrestler withal!\"\n\nNow, looking up, he saw her lips curved and scarlet, and her eyes\nbrimful of laughter, and fain would he have taken up the brush yet\ndared not. Therefore, very humbly, she stooped and lifting the brush\nput it in his hand. Then, trembling 'neath the touch of her soft\nfingers, Beltane rose up, and that which he had hidden deep within his\nheart brake from him.\n\n\"Helen!\" he whispered, \"O Helen, thou art so wondrous fair and belike\nof high estate, but as for me, I am but what I am. Behold me\" he cried,\nstretching wide his arms, \"I am but Beltane the Smith; who is there to\nlove such as I? See, my hands be hard and rough, and would but bruise\nwhere they should caress, these arms be unfitted for soft\nembracements. O lady, who is there to love Beltane the Smith?\"\n\nNow the Duchess Helen laughed within herself for very triumph, yet her\nbosom thrilled and hurried with her breathing, her cheek grew red and\nher eyes bright and tender, wherefore she stooped low to cull a flower\nere she answered.\n\n\"Beltane,\" she sighed, \"Beltane, women are not as thy flowers, that\nembraces, even such as thine, would crush them.\"\n\nBut Beltane stooped his head that he might not behold the lure and\nbeauty of her, and clenched his hands hard and fierce and thereafter\nspake:\n\n\"Thou art so wondrous fair,\" said he again, \"and belike of noble\nbirth, but--as for me, I am a smith!\"\n\nAwhile she stood, turning the flower in gentle fingers yet looking upon\nhim in his might and goodly youth, beholding his averted face with its\nstrong, sweet mouth and masterful chin, its curved nostrils and the\ndreaming passion of his eyes, and when she spake her voice was soft\nand very sweet.\n\n\"Above all, thou art--a man, messire!\"\n\nThen did my Beltane lift his head and saw how the colour was deepened\nin her cheek and how her tender eyes drooped before his.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he said, \"is there ever a woman to love such a man? Is there\never a woman who would leave the hum and glitter of cities to walk with\nsuch as I in the shadow of these forest-lands? Speak, Oh speak I do\nbeseech thee!\" Thus said he and stopped, waiting her answer.\n\n\"Nay, Beltane,\" she whispered, \"let thine own heart speak me this.\"\n\nAll blithe and glorious grew the world about him as he stooped and\ncaught her in his arms, lifting her high against his heart. And, in\nthis moment, he forgot the teaching of Ambrose the Hermit, forgot all\nthings under heaven, save the glory of her beauty, the drooping languor\nof her eyes and the sweet, moist tremor of her mouth. And so he kissed\nher, murmuring 'twixt his kisses:\n\n\"Fairer art thou than all the flowers, O my love, and sweeter thy\nbreath than the breath of flowers!\"\n\nThus Helen the Proud, the Beautiful, yielded her lips to his, and in\nall the world for her was nought save the deep, soft voice of Beltane,\nand his eyes, and the new, sweet ecstasy that thrilled within her.\nSurely nowhere in all the world was there such another man as this, so\nstrong and gentle, so meet for love and yet so virginal. Surely life\nmight be very fair here in the green solitudes, aye, surely, surely--\n\nSoft with distance came the peal of bells, stealing across the valley\nfrom the great minster in Mortain, and, with the sound, memory waked,\nand she bethought her of all those knights and nobles who lived but to\ndo her will and pleasure, of Mortain and the glory of it; and so she\nsighed and stirred, and, looking at Beltane, sighed again. Quoth she:\n\n\"Is this great love I foretold come upon thee, Beltane?\"\n\nAnd Beltane answered:\n\n\"Truly a man hath not lived until he hath felt a woman's kisses upon\nhis lips!\"\n\n\"And thou wilt flout poor Love no more?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" he answered, smiling, \"'tis part of me, and must be so\nhenceforth--forever!\"\n\nBut now she sighed again, and trembled in his arms and clasped him\nclose, as one beset by sudden fear, while ever soft with distance came\nthe silvery voices of the bells, low yet insistent, sweet yet\ncommanding; wherefore she, sighing, put him from her.\n\n\"Why then,\" said she, with drooping head, \"fare thee well, messire.\nNay, see you not? Methinks my task is done. And it hath been a--\npleasing task, this--of teaching thee to love--O, would you had not\nlearned so soon! Fare thee well. Beltane!\"\n\nBut Beltane looked upon her as one in deep amaze, his arms fell from\nher and he stepped back and so stood very still and, as he gazed, a\ngrowing horror dawned within his eyes.\n\n\"What art thou?\" he whispered.\n\n\"Nay, Beltane,\" she murmured, \"ah--look not so!\"\n\n\"Who art thou--and what?\" he said.\n\n\"Nay, did I not tell thee at the first? I am Helen--hast thou not\nknown? I am Helen--Helen of Mortain.\"\n\n\"Thou--thou art the Duchess Helen?\" said Beltane with stiffening lips,\n\"thou the Duchess and I--a smith!\" and he laughed, short and fierce,\nand would have turned from her but she stayed him with quivering hands.\n\n\"And--did'st not know?\" she questioned hurriedly, \"methought it was no\nsecret--I would have told thee ere this had I known. Nay--look not so,\nBeltane--thou dost love me yet--nay, I do know it!\" and she strove to\nsmile, but with lips that quivered strangely.\n\n\"Aye, I love thee, Helen of Mortain--though there be many fair lords to\ndo that! But, as for me--I am only a smith, and as a smith greatly\nwould I despise thee. Yet may this not be, for as my body is great, so\nis my love. Go, therefore, thy work here is done, go--get thee to thy\nknightly lovers, wed this Duke who seeks thee--do aught you will but\ngo, leave me to my hammers and these green solitudes.\"\n\nSo spake he, and turning, strode away, looking not back to where she\nstood leaning one white hand against a tree. Once she called to him but\nhe heeded not, walking ever with bowed head and hearing only the tumult\nwithin him and the throbbing of his wounded heart. And now, in his pain\nneeds must he think of yet another Helen and of the blood and agony of\nblazing Troy town, and lifting up his hands to heaven he cried aloud:\n\n\"Alas! that one so fair should be a thing so evil!\"\n\nAll in haste Beltane came to his lonely hut and taking thence his cloak\nand great sword, he seized upon his mightiest hammer and beat down the\nroof of the hut and drave in the walls of it; thereafter he hove the\nhammer into the pool, together with his anvil and rack of tools and so,\nsetting the sword in his girdle and the cloak about him, turned away\nand plunged into the deeper shadows of the forest.\n\nBut, ever soft and faint with distance, the silvery voices of the bells\nstole upon the warm, stilly air, speaking of pomp and state, of pride\nand circumstance, but now these seemed but empty things, and the\nDuchess Helen stood long with bent head and hands that strove to shut\nthe sounds away. But in the end she turned, slow-footed amid the\ngathering shadows and followed whither they called.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut that night, sitting in state within her great hall of Mortain, the\nDuchess Helen sighed deep and oft, scarce heeding the courtesies\naddressed to her and little the whispered homage of her guest Duke Ivo,\nhe, the proudest and most potent of all her many wooers; yet to-night\nher cheek burned beneath his close regard and her woman's flesh\nrebelled at his contact as had never been aforetime. Thus, of a sudden,\nthough the meal was scarce begun, she arose and stepped down from the\ndais, and when her wondering ladies would have followed forbade them\nwith a gesture. And so, walking proud and tall, she passed out before\nthem, whereat Duke Ivo's black brow grew the blacker, and he stared\nbefore him with narrowed eyes, beholding which, the faces of my lady's\ncounsellors waxed anxious and long; only Winfrida, chiefest of the\nladies, watched the Duke 'neath drooping lids and with a smile upon her\nfull, red lips.\n\nNow the Duchess, being come to her chamber, lifted her hands and tore\nthe ducal circlet from her brow and cast it from her, and, thereafter,\nlaid by her rings and jewels, and coming to the open casement fell\nthere upon her knees and reached forth her pale hands to where, across\nthe valley, the dark forest stretched away, ghostly and unreal, 'neath\nthe moon.\n\n\"My beloved!\" she whispered, \"O my beloved!\" And the gentle night-wind\nbore her secret in its embrace away across the valley to the dim\nsolitudes of the woods. \"Beltane!\" she sighed, \"love hath come into\nmine heart even as it came to thee, when I recked not of it. My\nbeloved--O my beloved!\" Anon she rose and stood awhile with head bowed\nas one that dreams, and of a sudden her cheek glowed warmly red, her\nbreath caught and she gazed upon the moon with eyes of yearning\ntenderness; thereafter she laughed, soft and happily and, snatching up\na cloak, set it about her and fled from the chamber. So, swift and\nlight of foot, she sped by hidden ways until she came where old Godric,\nher chief huntsman, busied himself trimming the shaft of a boar-spear,\nwho, beholding his lady, rose up in amaze.\n\n\"Godric,\" said she, white hands upon his arm, \"thou didst love me or\never I could walk?\"\n\n\"Aye, verily thou hast said, dear my lady.\"\n\n\"Love you me yet?\"\n\n\"Truly thou knowest that I love thee.\"\n\n\"Thou hast heard, Godric, how that my counsellors have long desired me\nto wed with Duke Ivo, and do yet await my answer to his suit--nay\nhearken! So to-night shall my mind be known in the matter once and for\nall! Come, my Godric, arm you and saddle two horses--come!\"\n\n\"Nay, sweet my lady, what would ye?\"\n\n\"Fly hence with thee, my Godric! Come--the horses!\"\n\n\"Fly from Mortain, and thou the Duchess? Nay, dear lady, 'tis madness,\nbethink thee! O dear my Mistress--O little Helen that I have cherished\nall thy days, bethink thee--do not this thing--\"\n\n\"Godric, did not the Duke, my father, strictly charge thee to follow\never my call?\"\n\n\"Aye, my lady.\"\n\n\"Then follow now!\" And so she turned and beckoned, and Godric perforce\nfollowed after.\n\nHand in hand they went a-down the winding stair, down, to the great,\ndim courtyard that whispered to their tread. And, thereafter, mounting\nin haste, the Duchess galloped from Mortain, unheeding stern old Godric\nby her side and with never a look behind, dreaming ever of Beltane with\ncheeks that crimsoned 'neath her hood.\n\nFast and faster she rode 'neath the pale moon, her eyes ever gazing\ntowards the gloom of the forest, her heart throbbing quick as the\nhoof-beats of her horse. So at last, being come to that glade whereby\nBeltane had his dwelling, she lighted down, and bidding Godric wait,\nstole forward alone.\n\nAutumn was at hand, and here and there the fallen leaves rustled sadly\nunder foot while the trees sighed and mourned together for that the\nflowers so soon must wither and die. But in the heart of the Duchess\nHelen, Spring was come, and all things spake to her of coming joys\nundreamed till now as she hasted on, flitting through the pallid\nmoonbeams that, falling athwart rugged hole and far-flung branch,\nsplashed the gloom with radiant light. Once she paused to listen, but\nheard nought save the murmur of the brook and the faint stirring of\nleaves. And now, clear and strong the tender radiance fell athwart the\nlonely habitation and her heart leapt at the sight, her eyes grew moist\nand tender and she hurried forward with flying steps, then--beholding\nthe ruin of thatch and wall, she stopped and stood aghast, gazing\nwide-eyed and with her heart numb in her bosom. Then she shivered, her\nproud head drooped and a great sob brake from her, for that she knew she\nwas come too late, her dreams of wandering with Beltane through sunny\nglades were nought but dreams after all. Beltane the Smith was gone!\n\nThen a great loneliness and desolation came upon her and, sinking down\nat the foot of that tree whereby he had been wont to lean so often, her\nyearning arms crept about its rugged hole and she lay there in the\npassion of her grief weeping long and bitterly.\n\nBut the gentle trees ceased mourning over their own coming sorrow in\nwonder at the sight, and bending their heads together, seemed to\nwhisper one to the other saying:\n\n\"He is gone, Beltane the Smith is gone!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nWHICH TELLS OF THE STORY OF AMBROSE THE HERMIT\n\n\nDeep, deep within the green twilight of the woods Ambrose the Hermit\nhad builded him a hut; had built and framed it of rude stones and\nthatched it with grass and mosses. And from the door of the hut he had\nformed likewise a path strewn thick with jagged stones and sharp\nflints, a cruel\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": 16384, "chars": 69774, "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 Hebrides or the jungles of\nJava.\n\nOver the door of that office, where the Angel of Death had smitten his\nfather thirty-five years before, a new sign swung in the breeze, and\nshowed the citizens the name of \"Dr. Ulpian Grey. Office hours from\nnine to ten, and from two to three.\"\n\nThe members of the profession called formally to welcome him to a\nshare of their annual profits, and collectively gave him a dinner; the\n\"best families\" invited him to tea or luncheon, croquet or \"German,\"\nand thus, having accomplished his professional and social _debut_,\nUlpian Grey, M.D., henceforth claimed and exercised the privilege of\nselecting his associates, and employing his time as inclination\nprompted.\n\nIn the comprehensive course of study to which he had so long devoted\nhis attention, he had not omitted that immemorial stereotyped\nvolume--Human Nature--which, despite the attempted revisions of sages,\npoliticians, and ecclesiastics, remains as immutable as the\neverlasting hills; printing upon the leaves of the youngest century\nphases of guilt and guilelessness which find their prototypes in the\ngray dawn of time, when the \"morning stars sang together,\"--yea, busy\nto-day as of yore, slaughtering Abel, stoning Stephen, fretting Moses,\ncrucifying Christ. Finding much that was admirable, and more that\nseemed ignoble, he gravely and reverently sought to possess himself of\nthe subtle arcana of this marvellous book, rejecting as equally\nerroneous and unreliable the magnifying zeal of optimism and the\ngloomy jaundiced lenses of sneering pessimism,--thoroughly satisfied\nthat it was a solemn duty, obligatory upon all, to study that complex\nparadoxical human nature, for the mastery of which Lucifer and Jesus\nhad ceaselessly battled since the day when Adam and Eve were called\n\"to dress and to keep\" the Garden by the Euphrates,--that heaven-born,\nheaven-cursed, restless human nature, which now, as then,--\n\n  \"Grasps at the fruitage forbidden,\n  The golden pomegranates of Eden,\n  To quiet its fever and pain.\"\n\nA few days' residence under the same roof, and a guarded observation\nof Salome's conduct, sufficed to acquaint Dr. Grey with the ungenerous\nmotives that induced her chagrin at his return; and, without\npermitting her to suspect that he had so accurately read her\ncharacter, he endeavored as unobtrusively as possible to bridge by\nkindness and courtesy the chasm of jealous distrust which divided\nthem.\n\nIndolent and self-indulgent, she neither brooked dictation, nor\ngracefully accepted any suggestions at variance with the reigning\nwhim; for, since she became an inmate of Miss Jane's hospitable home,\nexistence had been a mere dreamy, aimless succession of golden dawns\nand scarlet-curtained sunsets--a slow, quiet lapsing of weeks into\nmonths,--an almost stagnant stream curled by no eddies, freighted with\nfew aspirations, bearing no drift.\n\nThe circumstances and associations of her early life had destroyed her\nfaith in abstract nobility of character; self-abnegation she neither\ncomprehended nor deemed possible; and of a stern, innate moral heroism\nshe was utterly sceptical; consequently a delicately graduated scale\nof selfishness was the sole balance by which she was wont to weigh men\nand women.\n\nHer irregular method of study and desultory reading had rather\nenervated than strengthened a mind naturally clear and vigorous, and\nleft its acquisitions in a confused and kaleidoscopic mass, bordering\nupon intellectual salmagundi.\n\nOne warm afternoon, on his return from town, as Dr. Grey ascended the\nsteps he noticed Salome reclining on a bamboo settee at the western\nend of the gallery, where the sunshine was hot and glaring,\nunobstructed by the thin leafy screen of vines that drooped from\ncolumn to column on the southern and eastern sides of the building. If\nconscious of his approach she vouchsafed not the slightest intimation\nof it, and when he stood beside her she remained so immovable that he\nmight have imagined her asleep but for the lambent light which rayed\nout from eyes that seemed intently numbering the soft fluttering young\nleaves on a distant clump of elm trees, which made a lace-like tracery\nof golden glimmer and quivering shadow on the purple-headed clover at\ntheir feet.\n\nHer fair but long slender fingers carelessly held a book that\nthreatened to slip from their light relaxing grasp, and compressing\nhis lips in order to smother a smile under his heavy moustache, Dr.\nGrey stooped and put his hand on her plump white wrist, where the blue\nveins were running riot.\n\n\"So young,--yet cataleptic! Unfortunate, indeed,\" he murmured.\n\nShe shook off his touch, and instantly sat erect.\n\n\"I should be glad to know what you mean.\"\n\n\"I have an admirable, nay, I venture to add, an almost infallible\nprescription for catalepsy, which has cured two chronic and apparently\nhopeless cases, and it will afford me great pleasure to try the third\nexperiment upon you, since you seem pitiably in want of a remedy.\"\n\n\"Thank you. Were I as free from all other ills that 'flesh is heir\nto,' as I certainly am of the taint of catalepsy, I might indeed\ncongratulate myself upon an immunity which would obviate the dire\nnecessity of ever meeting a physician.\"\n\n\"Are you sure that you sufficiently understand the symptoms, to\nrecognize them unerringly?\"\n\nThe rose tint in her cheeks deepened to scarlet, as she haughtily drew\nherself up to her full height, and answered,--\n\n\"Dr. Grey himself is not more sagacious and adroit in detecting them;\nespecially when open eyes discover unwelcome and disagreeable objects,\nwhich, wishing to avoid, they are still compelled to see. I hope you\nare satisfied that I comprehend you.\"\n\n\"My meaning was not so occult as to justify a doubt upon that subject;\nand moreover, Salome, lack of astuteness is far from being your\ngreatest defect. My motive should eloquently plead pardon for my\ncandor, if I venture to tell you that your frequent affectation of\nunconsciousness of the presence of others, 'is a custom more honored\nin the breach than the observance,' and may prove prolific of\nannoyance in coming years; for courtesy constitutes the keystone in\nthe beautiful arch of social amenities which vaults the temple of\nChristian virtues. Lest you should take umbrage at my frankness, which\nought to assure you of my interest in your happiness and improvement,\npermit me to remind you of the oriental definition of a faithful\nfriend, that has more pith than verbal polish,--\n\n  \"The true friend is not he who holds up Flattery's mirror,\n    In which the face to thy conceit most pleasing hovers;\n  But he who kindly shows thee all thy vices, sirrah!\n    And helps thee mend them ere an enemy discovers.\"\n\nRising, Salome swept him a profound courtesy, and, while her fingers\nbeat a tattoo on the book she held, she watched him with a peculiar\nsparkle in her eyes, which he had already learned to understand was a\nbeacon flame kindled by intense displeasure. Dr. Grey seated himself,\nand, taking off his hat, said gently and winningly, as he pushed aside\nthe hair that clustered in brown rings over his forehead,--\n\n\"Here is ample room for both of us. Sit down, and be reasonable; and\nlet me catch a glimpse of the amiable elements which I feel assured\nmust exist somewhere in your nature, notwithstanding your persistent\nendeavor to conceal them. Your Janus character has hitherto breathed\nonly war--war; but, my young friend, I earnestly invoke its peaceful\nphase.\"\n\nThe kindness of tone and evident sincerity of manner might have\ndisarmed a prejudice better founded than hers; but wrath consumed all\nscruples, and, recollecting his forbearance with various former acts\nof rudeness, she presumed to attempt further aggressions.\n\nWaving her hand in tacit rejection of the proffered share of the\nsettee, she answered with more emphasis than perspicuity demanded,--\n\n\"Does your reading of the book of Job encourage you to believe that\nwhen those self-appointed counsellors--Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad\nthe Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite--returned to their respective\nhomes, they had cause to congratulate themselves upon their cordial\nwelcome to Job's bank of ashes, or felt bountifully repaid for their\nvoluntary mission of advice?\"\n\n\"Unfortunately, no. My study of the record of the man of Uz renders\npainfully patent that humiliating fact--old as humanity--that sanctity\nof motive is no coat-of-mail to the luckless few who bravely bear to\nthe hearts of those with whom they associate the unwelcome burden of\nunflattering truths. Phraseology--definitions--vary with advancing\ncenturies, but not so the human impulses they express or explain; and\nfriendship in the days of Job was the identical 'Mutual Admiration\nSociety,' which at present converts its consistent servile members\ninto Damon and Pythias, but punishes any violation of its canons with\nhatred dire and inextinguishable. Were I blessed with the genius of\nPraxiteles or of Angelo, I would chisel and bequeath to the world a\nnoble statue,--typical of that rare, fearless friendship, which,\nwalking through the lazaretto of diseased and morbid natures, bears\nnot honied draughts alone, but scalpel, caustic, and bitter tonics.\"\n\nThe calm sweetness of voice and mien lent to his words an influence\nwhich no amount of gall or satire could have imparted; and, in the\nbrief silence that ensued, Salome's heart was suddenly smitten with a\nhumiliating consciousness of her childish flippancy,--her utter\ninferiority to this man, who seemed to walk serenely in a starry plane\nfar beyond the mire where she grovelled.\n\nRidicule braced and exaggerated her weaknesses, and the strokes of\nsarcasm she could adroitly parry; but for persistent magnanimity she\nwas no match, and recoiled before it like the traditional Fiend at\nsight of the _Santo Sudario_. Watching her companion's quiet\ncountenance, she saw a shadow drift over it, betokening neither anger\nnor scorn, but serious regret; and involuntarily she drooped her head\nto avoid the eyes that now turned full upon her.\n\n\"Since I became a man, and to some extent capable of discriminating\nwith reference to the characters of persons with whom I found myself\nin contact, I have made and invariably observed one rule of\nconduct,--namely, never to associate with those whom I cannot\nrespect. Ignorance, want of refinement, irritability of temper, and\neven lack of generous impulses, I can forgive, when redeemed by candor\nand stern honesty of purpose; but arrogance, dissimulation, and\nall-absorbing selfishness I will not tolerate. In you I hoped and\nexpected better qualities than you permit me to find, and I trust you\nwill acquit me of intentional rudeness if I acknowledge that you have\npainfully disappointed me. It was, and still is, my earnest wish to\nbefriend and to aid you,--to contribute to your happiness, and\ncordially sympathize in any annoyances that may surround you; but thus\nfar you have rendered it impossible for me to esteem you, and while I\ndo not presume that my good opinion is of any importance to you, our\npresent relations compel me to request that our intercourse may in\nfuture be characterized by more urbanity than has yet graced it. My\nsister has been much pained by the feelings with which you evidently\nregard me, and since you and I are merely guests under her roof, a due\ndeference to her wishes should certainly repress the exhibition of\nantipathies towards those whom she loves. It is her earnest desire (as\nexpressed in a conversation which I had with her yesterday) that I\nshould treat you as a young sister; and, for her sake, I offer you\nonce more, and for the last time, my hearty assistance in any\ndepartment in which I am able to render it.\"\n\n\"The folds of your flag of truce do not conceal the drawn sword\nbeneath it; and let me tell you, sir, it is very evident that\n'demand' would far better have expressed your purpose than the\nword 'request.'\"\n\n\"At least you should not be surprised if I doubt whether you regard\nany truce as inviolable, and am inclined to suspect you of latent\ntreachery.\"\n\n\"Your accusation of dissimulation is unjust, for I have openly,\nfearlessly manifested my prejudice--my aversion.\"\n\n\"That you dislike me is my misfortune, but that you allow your\ndetestation to generate discord in our small circle is an error which\nI trust you will endeavor to correct. That I have many faults I shall\nnot attempt to deny; but mutual forbearance will prove a mutual\nblessing. For Jane's sake, shall there not be peace between us?\"\n\nStanding before her, he looked gravely down into her face, where flush\nand sparkle had died out, and saw--what she was too proud to\nconfess--that he had partially conquered her waywardness, that she was\nreluctantly yielding to his influence; but he understood her nature\ntoo thoroughly to pause contented with this slight advantage in a\ncontest which he foresaw must determine the direction of her aims\nthrough life.\n\n\"Salome, I am waiting for your decision.\"\n\nHer lips stirred twice, but the words they framed were either too\nhaughty or too humble, for she refused them utterance; and, while she\ndeliberated, two tears settled the question by rolling swiftly over\nher cheeks, and falling upon the cherry ribbon at her throat.\n\nAccepting it as a tacit signature to his terms of capitulation, and\nsatisfied with the result, Dr. Grey forbore to urge verbal assurances.\nTaking the book from her hand, he said, pleasantly,--\n\n\"Are you fond of French? I frequently find you poring over your\ngrammar.\"\n\n\"I have never had a teacher, nor have I conquered the conjugations;\nconsequently, I know comparatively little about the language.\"\n\n\"Are you studying it with the intention of familiarizing yourself with\nFrench literature, or merely to enable you to translate the few\nphrases that modern writers sprinkle through novels and essays?\"\n\n\"For neither purpose, but simply because it is the court language of\nthe old world; and, if I should succeed in my hope of visiting Europe,\nI might regret my ignorance of the universally received medium of\ncommunication.\"\n\n\"Have you, then, no desire to master those noble bursts of eloquence\nby which Racine, Bossuet, Fenelon, and Cousin have charmed the\nintellects of all nations?\"\n\n\"None, whatever. I might as well tell you at once, what you will\ninevitably discover ere long if you condescend to inspect my meagre\nattainments, that for abstract study I have no more inclination than\nto fondle some mummy in the crypts of Cyrene, or play 'blind man's\nbuff' with the corpses in the Morgue. My limited investments of time\nand thought in intellectual stock have been made solely with reference\nto speedy dividends of most practical and immediate benefits; and\nknowledge _per se_--knowledge which will not pay me handsome\ninterest--has no more value in my eyes than a handful of the dust of\nthose Atures found in the cavern of Ataruipe. Doubtless you think me\npitiably benighted, and possibly I might find more favor in your sight\nif I affected a prodigious amount of literary enthusiasm, and\nboundless admiration for scholarship and erudition; but that would\nprove too troublesome an imposture,--for I am constitutionally,\nhabitually, and premeditatedly lazy.\"\n\nShe saw a smile lurking under his heavy lashes, and half ambushed in\nthe corners of his mouth; and, vaguely conscious that she was\nrendering herself ridiculous, she bit her lip with ill-disguised\nvexation.\n\n\"Salome, I am afraid that under the garb of a jest you are making me\nacquainted with a very mournful truth. You have probably never heard\nof Lessing,--Gotthold Ephraim Lessing.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am not quite as ignorant as a Pitcairn's Islander; and I think\nI have somewhere seen that such a person as Lessing lived at\nWolfenbuettel. He once said, 'The chase is always worth more than\nthe quarry.' And again, 'Did the Almighty, holding in his right hand\nTruth, and in his left Search after Truth, deign to proffer me the\none I might prefer,--in all humility, but without hesitation, I\nshould request Search after Truth.' When you have nothing more\nimportant to occupy your attention, give ten minutes' reflection to\nhis admonition, and perhaps it may declare a dividend years hence.\nLast week I found your algebra on the rug before the library grate,\nand noticed several sums worked out in pencil on the margin. Are\nyou fond of mathematics?\"\n\n\"Not that I am aware of.\"\n\n\"What progress have you made?\"\n\n\"My knowledge of arithmetic is barely sufficient to take me through a\nbrief shopping expedition.\"\n\n\"Have you no ambition to increase it?\"\n\n\"Dr. Grey, I have no ambition. That 'last infirmity of noble minds'\nhas never attacked me; and, folding my hands, I chant ceaselessly to\nmy soul, 'Take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry.' The rapture of\nthe mathematician, who bows before the shrine of his favorite science,\nis to my dull intellect as incomprehensible as the jargon of\nmetaphysics or the mysteries wrapped up in Pali cerements. Equations,\nconic sections, differential calculus, constitute a skull and\ncross-bones to which I allow as wide a berth as possible.\"\n\nThe weary dissatisfied expression of her large, luminous eyes, belied\nthe sneer in her voice and the curl of her thin lip, and it cost her\nan effort to answer his next question.\n\n\"Will you tell me what rule you have adopted for the distribution of\nyour time, and the government of your life?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; you are heartily welcome to it: 'Yet a little slumber, a\nlittle folding of the hands to sleep.' _Laissez nous faire_. Moreover,\nDr. Grey, if you will courteously lend me your ears, I will favor you\nwith a still more felicitous exposition of my invaluable organon.\"\n\nStooping suddenly, she raised from the floor a small volume which had\nbeen concealed by her dress, and, as it opened at a page stained with\nthe juice of a purple convolvulus, she smiled defiantly, and read with\nalmost scornful emphasis,--\n\n                         ... \"'Ah, why\n    Should life all labor be?\n  Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,\n    And in a little while our lips are dumb.\n  Let us alone. What is it that will last?\n    All things are taken from us, and become\n  Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.\n    Let us alone. What pleasure can we have\n  To war with evil? Is there any peace\n    In ever climbing up the climbing wave?\n    All things have rest, and ripen towards the grave\n  In silence; ripen, fall, and cease:\n  Give us long rest or death; dark death or dreamful ease.'\n\nThere, Dr. Grey, you have my creed and method,--_Laissez nous\nfaire_.\"\n\nWith a degree of gravity that trenched on sternness, he bowed, and\nanswered,--\n\n\"So be it. I might insist that the closing lines of 'Ulysses' nobly\nrefute all the numbing heresy of the 'Lotos Eaters'--\n\n           ... 'But something ere the end,\n  Some work of noble note may yet be done.\n  That which we are, we are:\n  One equal templer of heroic hearts,\n  Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will\n  To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.'\n\nBut I would not rouse you from a lethargy, which, knowing it to be\nfatal to all hopes of usefulness, you still deliberately prefer. Take\ncare, however, lest you bury the one original talent so deep that you\nfail to unearth it when the Master demands it in the final day of\nrestitution. I have questioned you concerning your studies, because I\ndesired and intended to offer my services as tutor, while you\nprosecuted mathematics and the languages; but I forbear to suggest a\ncourse so evidently distasteful to you. Unless I completely misjudge\nyour character, I fear the day is not distant, when, haunted by ghosts\nof strangled opportunities, you will realize the solemn and painful\ntruth, that,--\n\n  'There is nothing a man knows, in grief or in sin,\n  _Half so bitter as to think, What I might have been_!'\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\n\"Salome, you look so weary that I must insist upon relieving you. Give\nme the book and run out for a breath of fresh air--a glimpse of blue\nsky.\"\n\nDr. Grey laid his hand on the volume, but the girl shook her head and\npushed aside his fingers.\n\n\"I am not at all tired, and even if I were it would make no\ndifference. Miss Jane desires me to read this sermon aloud, and I\nshall finish it.\"\n\nThe invalid, who had been confined to her bed for many days by a\nsevere attack of rheumatism, partially raised herself on one elbow,\nand said,--\n\n\"My dear, give him the book, while you take a little exercise. You\nhave been pent up here long enough, and, moreover, I want to talk to\nUlpian about some business matters. Don't look so sullen, my child; it\nmakes no difference who reads the sermon to me. Kiss me, and run out\non the lawn.\"\n\nThe orphan relinquished chair and book, but there was no relaxation of\nher bent brows, and neither warmth nor lingering pressure in the firm,\nhardly drawn lips, which lightly touched the old lady's sallow,\nwrinkled cheek. When she had left the room, closing the door after her\nwith more force than was requisite to bolt it securely, Miss Jane\nsighed heavily, and turned to her brother.\n\n\"Poor thing! She is so jealous of you; and it distresses me to see\nthat no friendship grows up between you, as I hoped and believed would\nbe the case. If you would only notice her a little more I think you\nmight win her over.\"\n\n\"Leave it to time, Janet. I 'have piped unto her and she would not\ndance; I have mourned unto her, and she has not lamented,'--and\nconcessions only feed her waywardness. If there be a residuum of good\nsense and proper feeling in her nature, they will assert themselves\nafter a while; if not, all extraneous influences are futile. I will\nresume the reading, if agreeable to you.\"\n\nMoody and rebellious, Salome stood for some moments on the threshold\nof the front door, staring vacantly out over the lawn; then, snatching\nher hat from a hook in the hall, she swiftly crossed the grounds,\nclimbed over a low lattice fence at the foot of the declivity, and\nfollowed a worn but neglected path leading into the adjoining forest.\n\nThe sanctity of the Sabbath afternoon rested like a benison over the\nsilent glades, where sunshine made golden roads along the smooth brown\npine straw, and glinted on the purple flags that fluttered in the mild\nwest wind. Even the melancholy plaint of sad-eyed dun doves was\nhushed, as they slowly swung in the swaying pine-tops; and two young\nlambs, neglected by the wandering flock, lay sleeping quietly, with\ntheir snowy heads pillowed on clustering violets,--far from the fold,\nforgotten by their mothers, at the mercy of strolling dogs, watched\nonly by the Great Shepherd.\n\nSalome's rapid pace soon placed a mile between her and the fence that\nbounded the lawn; and, pushing through the dense undergrowth which\nbetokened the proximity of a stream, she stood ere long on the margin\nof a wide pond which supplied the broad, shining sheet of beryl water\nthat poured over the rocky dam, close to the large irregular building\ncalled \"Grey's Mill.\"\n\nPiles of lumber were bleaching in the sunshine, but the machinery was\nat rest, the workmen were all absent, and not a sound broke the\nstillness, save the steady, monotonous chant of the water leaping down\ninto the race, where a thousand foam-flakes danced along towards the\nhuge wheels, and died on the soft green mosses and lush-creepers that\nstole down to bathe in the sparkling wavelets. The knotted roots of an\nold beech tree furnished a resting-place, and Salome sat down and\nleaned her head against the scarred trunk, where lightning had once\ngirdled and partially destroyed it,--leaving one-half the branches\nleafy, the remainder scorched and barren.\n\nOverhanging willows darkened the edges of the pond; and, in the\ncentre, one tall, venerable cypress, lonely as some palm in the\ndesert, rose like a gray shaft tufted with a fine fringe of fresh\ngreen; and occasional clusters of broad, shining leaves, spread\nthemselves on the surface of the water, cradling large, snowy lilies,\nwhose gold-powdered stamens trembled ceaselessly. Now and then a trout\nleaped up, as if for a breath of May air, and fell back into the\ncircle that widened until it touched either bank; and not far from a\ncow who stood knee-deep in water, browsing on a wild rose that\nclambered over the willows to peep at its pink image in the pond, a\nproud pair of gray geese convoyed a brood of yellow younglings that\ndived and breasted the ripples with evident glee.\n\nWith her arms clasped around her knees, Salome sat watching the blue\ntendrils of smoke that rose from a clump of elms beyond the mill and\ncurled lazily upward until they lost themselves in air; and, though\nthe arching elm boughs hid mossy roof and chimney, she nevertheless\nfelt that she was looking on the old house where she was born, and\nwhere ten dreary years of sorrow and humiliation had embittered and\nperverted her nature.\n\nThose elms had seen her mother die, had heard her father's drunken\nrevelry, and bent their aged heads to listen on that wild wintry\nnight, when in blood-curdling curses his soul rent itself from the\ndegraded tenement of clay. Apparently peace brooded over earth, sky,\nand water; but to that lonely figure under the riven beech, every\nobject within the range of vision babbled horrible tales of the early\nyears, and memory pointed to a corner of the lumber-shed adjoining the\nmill where she had often secreted herself to avoid her father's\nbrutality,--always keeping her head in the moonshine, because she\ndreaded the darkness inside, which childish fancy filled with ghostly\ngroups. She hated the place as she hated the past, and this was the\nsecond time she had visited it since the day that consigned her to the\npoor-house; for it was impossible for her to look at the pond without\nrecollecting one dark passage in her life, known only to God and\nherself. To-day she recalled, with startling vividness a dusky,\nstarlit June evening, when, maddened by an unmerited and unusually\nsevere punishment inflicted by her father, she had resolved to drown\nherself, and find peace in the mud at the bottom of the mill-pond.\nPlacing her infant sister on the grass, she had kissed her good-by,\nand selecting the deepest portion of the water, had climbed out on a\nwillow branch and prepared for the final plunge. Putting her fingers\nin her ears that she might not hear the bubbling of the murderous\nwater, she shut her eyes and sprang into the pond; but her long hair\ncaught the willow twigs, and, half strangled and quite willing to\nlive, she scrambled up into the low limbs that seemed so anxious to\nrescue her from a watery grave; and, dripping and trembling, crept\nback to the house, comforting herself with the grim assurance that\nwhatever else might befall, she certainly was not foreordained to be\neither beaten to death or drowned. The impulse which had brought her\non this occasion to a scene so fraught with harrowing memories, was\nexplicable only by the supposition that its painful surroundings were\nin consonance with the bitter and despondent mood in which she found\nherself; and, in the gloom that this retrospection shed over her\ncountenance, her features seemed to grow wan and angular. For several\ndays she had been sorely disquieted by the realization of Miss Jane's\nrapidly failing strength; and the probability of her death, which a\nyear ago would have been entirely endurable as an avenue to wealth,\nnow appeared the direst catastrophe that had yet threatened her\nill-starred life.\n\nIt was distressing to think of the kind old face growing stiff in a\nshroud, but infinitely more appalling to contemplate the possibility\nof being turned out of a comfortable home and driven to labor for a\nmaintenance. Salome had a vague impression that either Providence or\nthe world owed her a luxurious future, as partial compensation for her\njuvenile miseries; but since both seemed disposed to repudiate the\ndebt, she was reluctantly compelled to ponder her prospective\nbankruptcy in worldly goods, and, like the unjust steward, while\nunwilling to work she was still ashamed to beg.\n\nAlthough she strenuously resisted the strong, steady influence so\nquietly exerted by Dr. Grey, the best elements of her nature, long\ndormant, began to stir feebly, and she was conscious of nobler\naspirations than those which had hitherto swayed her; and of a\ndimly-defined self-dissatisfaction that was novel and annoying.\nUnwilling to admit that she valued his good opinion, she nevertheless\nfelt chagrined at her failure to possess it, and gradually she\nrealized her utter inferiority to this man, whose consistent Christian\ncharacter commanded an entire respect which she had never before\nentertained for any human being. Immersed in vexing thoughts\nconcerning her future, she mechanically stretched out her hand to\npluck a bunch of phlox and of lemon-hued primroses that were nodding\nin the sunshine close to her feet; but, as she touched the stems, a\nlarge copper- snake slowly uncoiled from the tuft of grass\nwhere they nestled and, gliding into the water, disappeared in the\nmidst of the lilies.\n\n\"I wonder if throughout life all the flowers I endeavor to grasp will\nprove only Moccasin-beds! Why should they,--unless God abdicates and\nSatan reigns? I have found, to my cost, that existence is not made\nentirely of rainless June days; but I doubt whether darkness and\nstorms shut out the warm glow and perpetually curtain the stars.\nObviously I am no saint; still, I am disposed to believe I am not\naltogether wicked. I have committed no capital sins, nor grievously\ntransgressed the decalogue,--and why should I despair of my share of\nthe good things of life? I am neither Cain nor Jezebel, and therefore\nFates and Furies have no warrant to dog my footsteps. Moreover, how do\nI know that Destiny is indeed the hideous, vindictive crone that\nluckless wretches have painted her, instead of an amiable, good soul,\nwho is quite as willing to scatter blessings as curses? Because some\ndyspeptic Greek dreamed of three pitiless old weavers, blind to human\ntears, deaf to human petitions, why should we wise and enlightened\npeople of the nineteenth century scare ourselves with the skeleton of\nPaganism? I have as inalienable a right to brocades, crown-jewels, and\na string of titles, as any reigning queen, provided I can only get my\nhands upon them; and, since life seems to be a sort of snatch-and-hold\ngame, quick keen eyes and nimble fingers decide the question. I have\nnever trodden on the world's tender toes, nor smitten its pet follies,\nnor set myself aloft to gaze pityingly on its degradation, therefore,\nthe world honors me with no special grudge. But one thing is\nmournfully certain,--my path is not strewn with loaves and fishes\nready baked and broiled, and I must even go gleaning and fishing for\nmyself. Almost everybody has some gift or some mission; but I really\ndo not see in what direction I can set to work. Work! How I hate the\nbare thought! I have not sufficient education to teach, nor genius to\nwrite, nor a talent for drawing, and barely music enough in my soul to\nenable me to carry the church tunes respectably. Come, Salome Owen!\nShake off your sloth, and face the abominable fact that you must earn\nyour own bread. It is a great shame, and I ought not to be obliged to\nwork, for I am not responsible for my existence, and those who brought\nme into the world owed it to me to provide for my wants. I cannot and\nwill not forgive my father and mother; but that will not mend matters,\nsince, nevertheless, here I am, with a body to feed and clothe, and\nGod only knows how I am to accomplish it. I find myself with youth,\nhealth, some beauty, an average share of intellect, and all the wants\npertaining thereunto. If the worst comes to the worst I suppose I can\ncontrive, like other poverty-stricken girls, to marry somebody who\nwill support me comfortably; but that is rather an uncertain\nspeculation, and meantime Miss Jane might die. Now, if the Bible is\ntrue, it must indeed be a blessed lot to be born a brown sparrow, and\nhave the Lord for a commissary. I am a genuine child of old Adam, and\nlabor is the heaviest curse that could possibly be sent upon me.\"\n\nOnce or twice during this profitless reverie she had paused to listen\nto a singular sound that came from a dense group of willows not far\nfrom the spot where she sat, and now it grew louder, swelling into a\nmeasured cry, as of a child in great distress.\n\n\"Somebody in trouble, but it does not concern me; I have enough and to\nspare, of my own.\"\n\nShe settled herself once more quite comfortably, but the low,\nmonotonous wail, smote her heart, and womanly sympathy with suffering\nstrangled her constitutional selfishness. Rising, she crept cautiously\nalong the edge of the pond until she reached the thicket whence the\nsound proceeded, and, as she pushed aside the low branches and peeped\ninto the cool, green nook, her eyes fell upon the figure of a little\nboy who lay on the ground, rolling from side to side and sobbing\nviolently.\n\n\"What is the matter? Are you sick or hungry?\"\n\nStartled by the sound of her voice, the child uttered a scream of\nterror, and whirled over, hiding his face in the leaves and grass.\n\n\"For Heaven's sake, stop howling! What are you about,--wallowing here\nin the mud, ruining your clothes, and yelling like a hyena? Hush, and\nget up.\"\n\n\"Oh, please, ma'am, don't tell on me! Don't carry me back, and I will\nhush!\"\n\n\"Where do you live?\"\n\n\"Nowhere. Oh!--oh!\" And he renewed his cries.\n\n\"A probable story. What is your name?\"\n\n\"Haven't got any name.\"\n\n\"You have no name, and you live nowhere? Come, little fellow, this\nwill never do. I am afraid you are a very bad boy and have run away\nfrom home to escape being punished. Hush this instant!\"\n\nHe had kept his face carefully concealed, and, resolved to ascertain\nthe truth, Salome stooped and tried to lift him; but he struggled\ndesperately, and screamed frantically,--\n\n\"Let me alone! I won't go back! I will jump into the pond and drown\nmyself if you don't let me alone.\"\n\nHe was so hoarse from constant crying that she could recognize no\nfamiliar tones in his voice, but a great dread seized her, and,\nsuddenly putting her hands under his head, she forced the face up, and\nlooked at the flushed, swollen features.\n\n\"Stanley! Is it possible? My poor little brother!\"\n\nThe equally astonished boy started up, and stared half wistfully, half\nfearfully, at the figure standing before him.\n\n\"Is it you, Salome? I did not know you.\"\n\n\"How came you here? When did you leave the Asylum?\"\n\n\"I ran away, three days ago.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because I was tired of living there, and I wanted to come back\nhome.\"\n\n\"Home, indeed! You miserable begger, don't you know you have no home\nbut the Orphan Asylum?\"\n\n\"Yes, I have. I want to come back yonder. Don't you see home yonder\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": 16384, "chars": 66380, "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,\" Mr. Eberstein responded very unresponsively.\n\n\"But she will not have a common history. Do you see how open she is to\nreceive impressions, and how fast they stay once they are made?\"\n\n\"I see the first quality. I never saw a creature quicker to take\nimpressions or to welcome affections. Whether they will prove as\nlasting as they are sudden,--that we have no means of knowing at\npresent.\"\n\n\"I think they will.\"\n\n\"That's a woman's conclusion, founded on her wishes.\"\n\n\"It is a man's conclusion too; for you think the same thing, Edward.\"\n\n\"Don't prove anything, Harry.\"\n\n\"Yes, it does. When two people come to the same independent view of\nsomething, it is fair to suppose there are grounds for it.\"\n\n\"I hope so. Time will show.\"\n\n\"But, Edward, with this extremely sensitive and affectionate nature,\nhow important it is that Dolly should have only the right surroundings,\nand see only the right sort of people.\"\n\n\"Just so. And so she is going out into the world of a large school;\nwhere she will meet all sorts of people and be subjected to all sorts\nof influences; and you cannot shield her.\"\n\n\"I wish I could keep her at home, and have her taught here! I wish I\ncould!\"\n\n\"Playing Providence again. We all like to do it.\"\n\n\"No, but, Edward, just look at her,\" said Mrs. Eberstein with her eyes\nfull of tears.\n\n\"I do,\" said Mr. Eberstein. \"I've got eyes. But you will have to trust\nher, Harry.\"\n\n\"Now she will go, I have no doubt, and write that letter to her mother.\nI wonder if Sally will get scared, and take her away from us?\"\n\n\"Why, Hal,\" said her husband, \"your self-will is getting up very strong\nto-night! What if? Dolly's future does not depend upon us; though we\nwill do what we can for it.\"\n\nWhat they did then, was to pray about it again; for these people\nbelieved in prayer.\n\nThe next day Mrs. Eberstein had invited an acquaintance to come to\ndinner. This acquaintance had a daughter, also about to enter Mrs.\nDelancy's school; and Mrs. Eberstein's object was to let the two girls\nbecome a little known to each other, so that Dolly in the new world she\nwas about to enter might not feel everything utterly strange. Mrs.\nThayer belonged to a good New York family; and it likewise suited her\npurposes to have her daughter received in so unexceptionable a house as\nMrs. Eberstein's, albeit the young lady was not without other\nPhiladelphia friends. So the party fitted together very harmoniously.\nMrs. Thayer, in spite of her good connections, was no more than a\ncommonplace personage. Christina, her daughter, on the other hand,\nshowed tokens of becoming a great beauty. A little older than Dolly, of\nlarger build and more flesh and blood development generally, and with\none of those peach-blossom complexions which for fairness and delicacy\nalmost rival the flower. Her hair was pretty, her features also pretty,\nher expression placid. Mrs. Eberstein was much struck.\n\n\"They are just about of an age,\" remarked Mrs. Thayer. \"I suppose they\nwill study the same things. Everybody studies the same things. Well, I\nhope you'll be friends and not rivals, my dears.\"\n\n\"Dolly will not be rivals with anybody,\" returned Dolly's aunt.\n\n\"She don't look very strong. I should think it would not do for her to\nstudy too hard,\" said the other lady. \"Oh, rivalry is necessary, you\nknow, to bring out the spirit of boys and girls and make them work. It\nmay be friendly rivalry; but if they were not rivals they would not be\nanything; might as well not be school girls, or school boys. They would\nnot do any work but what they liked, and we know what that would amount\nto. I don't know about beating learning into boys; some people say that\nis the way; but with girls you can't take that way; and all you have to\nfall back upon is emulation.\"\n\n\"Very few young people will study for the love of it,\" Mrs. Eberstein\nso far assented.\n\n\"They might, I believe, if the right way was taken,\" Mr. Eberstein\nremarked.\n\n\"Emulation will do it, if a girl has any spirit,\" said Mrs. Thayer.\n\n\"What sort of spirit?\"\n\n\"What sort of spirit! Why, the spirit not to let themselves be outdone;\nto stand as high as anybody, and higher; be No. 1, and carry off the\nfirst honours. A spirited girl don't like to be No. 2. Christina will\nnever be No. 2.\"\n\n\"Is it quite certain that such a spirit is the one to be cultivated?\"\n\n\"It makes them study,\"--said Mrs. Thayer, looking at her questioner to\nsee what he meant.\n\n\"What do you think the Bible means, when it tells us not to seek for\nhonour?\"\n\n\"_Not_ to seek for honour?\" repeated the lady.\n\n\"Not the honour that comes from man.\"\n\n\"I didn't know it forbade it. I never heard that it was forbidden. Why,\nMr. Eberstein, it is _natural_ to wish for honour. Everybody wishes for\nit.\"\n\n\"So they do,\" Mr. Eberstein assented. \"I might say, so _we_ do.\"\n\n\"It is natural,\" repeated the lady.\n\n\"Its being natural does not prove it to be right.\"\n\n\"Why, Mr. Eberstein, if it is _natural_, we cannot help it.\"\n\n\"How then does trying to be No. 1 agree with the love that 'seeketh not\nher own'?\"\n\nDolly was listening earnestly, Mr. Eberstein saw. Mrs. Thayer\nhesitated, in some inward disgust.\n\n\"Do you take that literally?\" she said then. \"How can you take it\nliterally? You cannot.\"\n\n\"But Christ pleased not Himself.\"\n\n\"Well, but He was not like us.\"\n\n\"We are bidden to be like him, though.\"\n\n\"Oh, as far as we can. But you cannot press those words literally, Mr.\nEberstein.\"\n\n\"As far as we can? I _must_ press them, for the Bible does. I ask no\nmore, and the Lord demands no more, than that we be like our Master _as\nfar as we can_. And He 'pleased not himself,' and 'received not honour\nfrom men.'\"\n\n\"If you were to preach such doctrine in schools, I am afraid you would\nhave very bad recitations.\"\n\n\"Well!\" said Mr. Eberstein. \"Better bad recitations than bad hearts.\nThough really there is no necessary connection between my premises and\nyour conclusion. The Bible reckons 'emulations,' Mrs. Thayer, in the\nlist of the worst things human nature knows, and does.\"\n\n\"Then you would have a set of dunces. I should just like to be told,\nMr. Eberstein, how on that principle you would get young people to\nstudy. In the case of girls you cannot do it by beating; nor in the\ncase of boys, after they have got beyond being little boys. Then\nemulation comes in, and they work like beavers to get the start of one\nanother. And so we have honours, and prizes, and distinctions. Take all\nthat away, and how would you do, Mr. Eberstein?\"\n\nMr. Eberstein was looking fondly into a pair of young eyes that were\nfixedly gazing at him. So looking, he spoke,\n\n\"There is another sort of '_Well done!_' which I would like my Dolly\nand Miss Christina to try for. If they are in earnest in trying for\nthat, they will study!\" said Mr. Eberstein.\n\nMrs. Thayer thought, apparently, that it was no use talking on the\nsubject with a visionary man; and she turned to something else. The\nparty left the dinner-table, and Dolly took her new acquaintance\nupstairs to show her the treasure contained in Mrs. Eberstein's old\nbookcase.\n\n\"Mr. Eberstein is rather a strange man, isn't he?\" said Miss Christina\non the way.\n\n\"No,\" said Dolly. \"I don't think he is. What makes you say so?\"\n\n\"I never heard any one talk like that before.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Dolly, stopping short on the landing place and looking\nat her companion. Then she seemed to change her manner of attack. \"Who\ndo you want to please most?\" she said.\n\n\"With my studies? Why, mamma, of course.\"\n\n\"I would rather please the Lord Jesus,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"But I was talking about _school work_,\" retorted the other. \"You don't\nsuppose _He_ cares about our lessons?\"\n\n\"I guess He does,\" said Dolly. They were still standing on the landing\nplace, looking into each other's eyes.\n\n\"But that's impossible. Think!--French lessons, and English lessons,\nand music and dancing, and all of it. That couldn't be, you know.\"\n\n\"Do you love Jesus?\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Love him? I do not know,\" said Christina colouring. \"I am a member of\nthe church, if that is what you mean.\"\n\nDolly began slowly to go up the remaining stairs. \"I think we ought to\nstudy to please Him,\" she said.\n\n\"I don't see how it should please him,\" said the other a little out of\nhumour. \"I don't see how He should care about such little things.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" said Dolly. \"If your mother cares, and my mother cares.\nJesus loves us better than they do, and I guess He cares more than they\ndo.\"\n\nChristina was silenced now, as her mother had been, and followed Dolly\nthinking there were a _pair_ of uncomfortably strange people in the\nhouse. The next minute Dolly was not strange at all, but as much a\nchild as any of her fellows. She had unlocked the precious bookcase,\nand with the zeal of a connoisseur and the glee of a discoverer she was\nenlarging upon the treasures therein stowed away.\n\n\"Here is 'Henry Milner,'\" she said, taking down three little red\nvolumes. \"Have you read that? Oh, it is delightful! I like it almost\nbest of all. But I have not had time to read much yet. Here is 'Harry\nand Lucy,' and 'Rosamond,' and 'Frank.' I have just looked at them. And\n'Sandford and Merton.' do you know 'Sandford and Merton'? I have just\nread that.\"\n\n\"There are the 'Arabian Nights,'\" said Christina.\n\n\"Is that good? I haven't read much yet. I don't know almost any of\nthem.\"\n\n\"'The Looking-Glass'\"--Christina went on--\"'Pity's Gift'--'Father's\nTales.'\"\n\n\"Those are beautiful,\" Dolly put in. \"I read one, about 'Grandfather's\nold arm-chair.' Oh, it's _very_ interesting.\"\n\n\"'Elements of Morality'\"--Christina read further on the back of a\nbrown book.\n\n\"That don't sound good, but I guess it _is_ good,\" said Dolly. \"I just\npeeped in, and 'Evenings at Home' looks pretty. Here is 'Robinson\nCrusoe,' and 'Northern Regions;' I want to read that very much. I guess\nit's delightful.\"\n\n\"Have you ever been to school before?\" said Christina. The books had a\nfaint interest for her.\n\n\"No,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Nor have I; but I know somebody who has been at Mrs. Delancy's, and\nshe says there is one lovely thing at that school. Every month they go\nsomewhere.\"\n\n\"They--go--somewhere,\" Dolly echoed the words. \"Who go?\"\n\n\"Everybody; teachers and scholars and all. There is a holiday; and Mrs.\nDelancy takes them all to see something. One time it was a rope walk, I\nthink; and another time it was a paper-mill; and sometimes it's a\npicture-gallery. It's something very interesting.\"\n\n\"I suppose we are not _obliged_ to go, are we, if we don't want to?\"\n\n\"Oh, but we _do_ want to. I do.\"\n\n\"I would just as lief be at home with my Aunt Harry,\" said Dolly,\nlooking lovingly at the book-case. But Christina turned away from it.\n\n\"They dress a great deal at this school,\" she said. \"Does your mother\ndress you a great deal?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Dolly. \"I don't know what you mean.\"\n\n\"Well, what's your school dress? what is it made of?\"\n\n\"My school dress for every day! It is grey poplin. It is not new.\"\n\n\"Poplin will do, I suppose,\" said Christina. \"But some of the girls\nwear silk; old silk dresses, you know, but really handsome still, and\nvery stylish.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'stylish'?\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Why don't you know what 'stylish' means?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nChristina looked doubtfully at her new little companion. Where could\nDolly have come from, and what sort of people could she belong to, who\ndid not know _that?_ The truth was, that Dolly being an only child and\nliving at home with her father and mother, had led a very childish life\nup to this time; and her mother, owing to some invalidism, had lately\nbeen withdrawn from the gay world and its doings. So, though the thing\nwas greatly upon her mother's heart, the word had never made itself\nfamiliar to Dolly's ear. Christina was reassured, however, by observing\nthat the little girl's dress was quite what it ought to be, and\ncertainly bespoke her as belonging to people who \"knew what was what.\"\nSo the practice was all right, and Dolly needed only instruction in the\ntheory.\n\n\"'Stylish,'\"--she repeated. \"It means--It is very hard to tell you\nwhat it means. Don't you know? 'Stylish' means that things have an air\nthat belongs to the right kind of thing, and only what you see in a\ncertain sort of people. It is the way things look when people know how.\"\n\n\"Know how, what?\" inquired Dolly.\n\n\"Know how things ought to be; how they ought to be worn, and how they\nought to be done.\"\n\n\"Then everybody ought to be stylish,\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Yes, but you cannot, my dear, unless you happen to know how.\"\n\n\"But I should think one could always know how things ought to be,\"\nDolly went on. \"The Bible tells.\"\n\n\"The Bible!\" echoed Christina.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"The Bible tell one how to be stylish!\"\n\n\"The Bible tells how things ought to be.\"\n\n\"Why, no, it don't, child! the Bible don't tell you what sort of a hat\nto put on.\"\n\n\"Yes, it does, Christina. The Bible says, 'Whether you eat or drink, or\nwhatsoever you do, do all to the glory of God.' I can show you the\nwords.\"\n\n\"Oh, that is something quite different. That has nothing to do with\nbeing stylish. How shall I make you understand? If your cravat wasn't\ntied in a nice bow there, it wouldn't be stylish.\"\n\n\"Well,\" returned Dolly, \"it wouldn't be to the glory of God either.\"\n\n\"What has that to do with it?\"\n\n\"I think it would be wrong for a Christian to be anything but nice.\"\n\n\"Oh, it isn't being _nice!_\" said Christina. \"Your dress wouldn't be\nstylish if it hadn't those flounces.\"\n\n\"And is it now?\"\n\n\"Yes--I think it is. I should say, your mother knows what is what. It\nisn't very easy to be stylish if you are poor; but I've seen people do\nit, though.\"\n\n\"I don't think I understand, quite,\" said Dolly. \"But when I am old\nenough to dress myself,--to choose my own dresses, I mean, I shall\ndress to please Jesus, Christina.\"\n\n\"You can't,\" said Christina. \"I never heard of such a thing. It's\nmaking religion little, I think, to talk so.\"\n\n\"I think, if religion isn't little, it'll _do_ so,\" answered Dolly.\nWhereby each kept her own opinion; notwithstanding which, at the end of\nthe afternoon they separated, mutually pleased each with her new\nacquaintance.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE MARINE DICTIONARY.\n\nAs the weeks of the first school term went on, the two girls drew\nnearer to each other. Everybody inclined towards Dolly indeed; the\nsweet, fresh, honest little face, with the kindly affections beaming\nforth from it, and the sensitive nature quick to feel pleasure or pain,\nand alive to fun in the midst of its seriousness, made such a quaint\nmingling and such a curious variety and such a lovely creature, that\nall sorts of characters were drawn towards her. From the head of the\nschool down, teachers and pupils, there was hardly one whose eye did\nnot soften and whose lips did not smile at Dolly's approach. With\nChristina, on the other hand, it was not just so. She was not\nparticularly clever, not particularly emotional, not specially\nsociable; calm and somewhat impassive, with all her fair beauty she was\noverlooked in the practical \"selection\" which takes place in school\nlife; so that little Dolly after all came to be Christina's best\nfriend. Dolly never passed her over; was never unsympathetic; never\nseemed to know her own popularity; and Christina's slow liking grew\ninto a real and warm affection as the passing days gave her more and\nmore occasion. In the matter of \"style,\" it appears, Dolly had enough\nto satisfy her; thanks to her mother; for Dolly herself was as\nunconventional in spirit and manner as a child should be. In school\nwork proper, on the other hand, she was a pattern of diligence and\nfaithfulness; gave her teachers no trouble; of course had the good word\nand good will of every one of them. Was it the working of Mr.\nEberstein's rule?\n\nThe first monthly holiday after school began was spent in Fairmount\nPark. A few weeks later, Dolly and Christina were sitting together one\nday, busy with some fancy work, when one of their schoolmates came up\nto them.\n\n\"Guess where we are going next week!\" she cried.\n\n\"Next week?\" said the others, looking up.\n\n\"Next holiday--next week--next Saturday. Yes. Where do you think we are\ngoing? Just guess. Oh, you can't guess.\"\n\n\"I can't guess,\" said Dolly; \"I don't know what there is to go to. The\nMint? Mrs. Delancy did speak of the Mint.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it! Something else has come up. Guess again.\"\n\n\"Something has _come up_. Then it must be something new.\"\n\n\"It isn't new, either. Can't a thing come to you that isn't new?\"\n\n\"But you're talking riddles, Eudora,\" the other two said, laughing.\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you. There's a man-of-war come up the river.\"\n\n\"A man-of-war\"--Dolly repeated.\n\n\"You know what that means, I hope, Dolly Copley?\"\n\n\"I don't know. It means a soldier. The Bible says, Goliath was a\nman-of-war from his youth.\"\n\nDolly as she spoke looked mystified, and her words were met by a shout\nof laughter so loud and ringing that it almost abashed the child. Some\nother girls had joined the group and were standing around, and there\nwere many to laugh. However, Dolly was never given to false shame. She\nwaited for more light.\n\n\"It's a _ship_, Dolly,\" they cried. \"You dear little innocent, don't\nyou know as much as that?\"\n\n\"It's a ship; and this is a big one. It is lying out in the Delaware.\"\n\n\"Then why is it called a man-of-war?\" said Dolly.\n\n\"Because it is a war ship. Won't it be fun! just think!--the guns, and\nthe officers, and the midshipmen!\"\n\n\"What are midshipmen?\"\n\n\"I don't know!\" cried another. \"They are somebodies that are always on\na man-of-war; and they are young too. Baby officers, I suppose.\"\n\n\"They _are_ officers,\" said the first speaker.\n\n\"No, they're not. They are learning to be officers. They're at school,\nand their school is a man-of-war; and their teachers are the captain,\nand the lieutenants, and so on.\"\n\n\"And what are their lessons about?\" said Dolly.\n\n\"_I_ don't know. Oh, they are learning to be officers, you know. Really\nthey are boys at school.\"\n\n\"Some of them are old enough,\" remarked another.\n\n\"Learning _what_, Eudora?\" said Dolly.\n\n\"How do I know, chicken? I've never been a midshipman myself. You can\nask them if you like, when we go on board. For we are going on board,\ngirls! Hurrah! We shall drive over to the Navy Yard, and there we shall\nget into boats, and then we shall row--I mean be rowed--out into the\nstream to the ship. It's a big frigate, the 'Achilles;' and Mrs.\nDelancy knows the captain; and she says it's a good chance, and she\nwill not have us lose it. Hurrah, girls! this is prime.\"\n\n\"What's a _frigate?_\" was Dolly's next question.\n\n\"Dolly Copley, you are ridiculous! you want to understand everything.\"\n\n\"Don't you?\"\n\n\"No! I guess I don't. I am tired enough with trying to understand a\nlittle. I'll let alone what I can. You'll know what a frigate is when\nyou have been on board of her.\"\n\n\"But I think I should enjoy it a great deal more if I knew beforehand,\"\nsaid Dolly.\n\n\"You had best study a ship's dictionary. _I_ am going to study what I\nshall wear.\"\n\n\"That you cannot tell yet,\" Christina remarked. \"You do not know what\nsort of a day next Saturday, I mean, Saturday week, will be. It may be\ncold or\"----\n\n\"It mayn't be hot,\" said the other. \"It will be cold, cold enough. It's\nNovember. You can wear your prettiest winter things, young ladies.\"\n\nA little while after, the group had broken up, and Dolly sought out one\nof the teachers and begged to know where she could find a \"ship's\ndictionary.\"\n\n\"A ship dictionary? My dear, there is no such thing. What do you want\nto find out?\"\n\n\"One of the girls said I could find out about ships in a ship's\ndictionary. We are going to see a man-of-war next week.\"\n\n\"Oh, and you want to study up the subject? It is a Marine Dictionary\nyou are in quest of. Come to the library.\"\n\nThe library was always open to the girls for study purposes. The\nteacher was good-natured, and got out a big, brown square volume, and\nput it in Dolly's hand. Dolly had been followed by Christina; and now\nthe two sat down together in a window recess on the floor, with the\nbook before them. Dolly began at the beginning, and aloud.\n\n\"'_Aback_.'\"\n\n\"That is nothing we want,\" remarked Christina.\n\n\"Oh yes, I think it is. It is 'the situation of the sails when their\nsurfaces are flatted against the masts by the force of the wind.' I do\nnot understand, though. The sails are said to be 'taken aback.'-- Oh, I\nhave heard mother say that. What could she mean? I have heard her say\nshe was taken aback.\"\n\n\"I have heard people say that too,\" said Christina; \"often. I never\nknew what they meant. Something disagreeable, I think.\"\n\n\"Well, you see,\" said Dolly, reading further, \"it 'pushes the ship\n_astern_'--what's that? 'See _Backing_.' I suppose it means pushing it\nback. But I don't understand!\" the little girl added with a sigh.\n\n\"Oh, well! we don't care about all that,\" said Dolly's companion. \"Go\non to something else. Find out about the midshipmen.\"\n\n\"What about the midshipmen?\"\n\n\"Nothing,--only I would like to know what they are. Madeleine said they\nwere young officers; very young; not older than some of us.\"\n\n\"Then why do you want to know about them?\" said Dolly. \"We have nothing\nto do with young officers. We don't know any of them.\"\n\n\"But we might,\" suggested Christina. \"We shall see them, if we go on\nboard the ship.\"\n\n\"I don't care about seeing them,\" said Dolly. \"Young officers are young\nmen, I suppose. I understand _them;_ what I don't know about, is the\nship. Let us go on in this book, and see what we come to. '_Abaft_--the\nhinder part of a ship'\"----\n\n\"O Dolly!\" cried Christina, \"we have not time to go through everything\nin this way. You have not turned over one leaf yet  Do get on a little.\"\n\n\"It is good it's a holiday,\" said Dolly, turning the leaf. \"We have\nplenty of time. I like this book. '_Aboard_,--the inside of a ship.' So\nwhen we go into the ship, we go aboard. That's it.\"\n\n\"Go on,\" urged Christina. \"Here's '_Admiral_.'\"\n\n\"'An officer of first rank and command in the fleet.' There is a great\ndeal here about the Admiral. I don't believe we shall see him. We'll\nlook a little further.\"\n\nDolly presently was caught by the word \"_Anchor_,\" and lost herself in\nthe study of the paragraphs following, and the plate accompanying;\nafter which she declared that she understood how a ship could be held\nby its anchor. Urged to go on again, she turned over more leaves, but\ngot lost in the study of \"_boats;_\" then of \"_cannon;_\" then of the\n\"_captain_'s\" office and duties; finally paused at the plate and\ndescription of a ship's deck.\n\n\"It's just the deck of a ship!\" said Christina impatiently. \"You will\nsee it when we go on board the 'Achilles.'\"\n\n\"I want to understand it.\"\n\n\"You can't.\"\n\n\"Are those guns?\" said Dolly, pointing to a row of pieces delineated\nalong the side of the deck.\n\n\"Must be guns.\"\n\n\"Well, I should like to go on board of a ship very much,\" said Dolly.\n\"There are twelve guns on that side. If there are the same on this\nside, that would make twenty-four. What do they want so many for,\nChristina, on one ship?\"\n\n\"Why, to fight with, of course. To fire at other ships.\"\n\n\"But what do they want of _so many?_ They would not want to fire twelve\nat once. I should think one would be enough.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it wouldn't. Go on, Dolly, do! let us get to something else.\"\n\nIt was difficult to get Dolly on. She was held fast again by the\ndescription of a naval engagement; then fell to studying the directions\nfor the \"_exercise_\" of the guns; then was interested in some plates\ngiving various orders of the line of battle. At last in due course they\ncame to the word \"_Midshipman_,\" which was read, or the article under\nit, by both girls.\n\n\"'A naval cadet'\"--repeated Christina.\n\n\"And a cadet must be four years at sea before he can become a\nlieutenant; and two years midshipman besides. I should think they would\nbe tired of it.\"\n\n\"But if they are going to be sailors all their lives, it's no use for\nthem to get tired of it,\" said Christina.\n\n\"They come on shore sometimes, don't they?\"\n\n\"I suppose so. Oh yes, they have houses, I know, and wives and\nchildren. I shouldn't like to be the wife of a sailor!\"\n\n\"Somebody must, I suppose,\" said Dolly. \"But I shouldn't like to have\nmy home--my principal home, I mean--on the sea; if I was a man. _They_\nmust like it, I suppose.\"\n\nDolly went on reading.\n\n\"The midshipmen have plenty to do, Christina. They have to learn how to\ndo everything a common sailor does; all the work of the ship; and then\nthey must learn astronomy, and geometry, and navigation and mechanics.\nHydrostatics, too; oh dear, I don't know what that is. I can look it\nout, I suppose. The midshipmen must be very busy, Christina, and at\nhard work too.\"\n\nChristina's interest in the Marine Dictionary was exhausted. She went\noff; but Dolly pored over its pages still, endeavouring to take in\ndetails about vessels, and ropes, and sails, and winds, until her head\nwas in a fog. She recurred to the book, however, on the next\nopportunity; and from time to time, as her lessons permitted, gave her\ntime and attention to this seemingly very unnecessary subject. How much\nshe really learned, is doubtful; yet as little things do touch and link\nthemselves with great things, it may be that the old Marine Dictionary\nin Mrs. Delancy's library played a not insignificant part in the\nfortunes of Dolly Copley. As we shall see. She studied, till a ship\nbecame a romance to her; till rigging and spars and decks and guns were\nlike the furniture of a new and strange life, which hardly belonged to\nthe earth, being upon the sea; and the men who lived that life, and\nespecially the men who ruled in it, grew to be invested with\ncharacteristics of power and skill and energy which gave them fabulous\ninterest in Dolly's eyes.\n\nAt home there had been a little scruple about letting Dolly join the\nparty. She had had a cold, and was rather delicate at all times. The\nscruples, however, gave way before the child's earnest wish; and as\nSaturday of the particular week turned out mild and quiet, no hindrance\nwas put in the way of the expedition.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE \"ACHILLES.\"\n\nIt was a very special delectation which the school were to enjoy\nto-day. The girls thought it always \"fun,\" of course, to quit lessons\nand go to see anything; \"even factories,\" as one of the girls expressed\nit, to Dolly's untold astonishment; for it seemed to her that to be\nallowed to look into the mystery of manufactures must be the next thing\nto taking part personally in a fairy tale. However, to-day it was not a\nquestion of manufactures, but of a finished and furnished big ship, and\nnot only finished and furnished, but manned. \"_This_ is something\nlively,\" Eudora opined. And she was quite right.\n\nThe day was a quiet day in November, with just a spice of frost in it;\nthe air itself was lively, quick and quickening. The party were driven\nto the Navy Yard in carriages, and there received very politely by the\nofficers, some of whom knew Mrs. Delancy and lent themselves with much\nkindness to the undertaking. The girls were more or less excited with\npleasure and anticipation; but to Dolly the Navy Yard seemed to be\nalready touching the borders of that mysterious and fascinating sea\nlife in which her fancy had lately been roaming. So when the girls were\nall carefully bestowed in stout little row boats to go out to the ship,\nDolly's foot it was which stepped upon enchanted boards, and her eye\nthat saw an enchanted world around her. What a field was this rippling\nwater, crisped with the light breeze, and gurgling under the boat's\nsmooth sweep ahead! How the oars rose and fell, all together, as if\nmoved by only one hand. Was this a part of the order and discipline of\nwhich she had read lately, as belonging to this strange world?\nProbably; for now and then a command was issued to the oarsmen, curt\nand sharp; and obeyed, Dolly saw, although she did not know what the\ncommand meant. Yes, she was in an enchanted sphere; and she looked at\nthe \"Achilles\" as they drew nearer, with profoundest admiration. Its\ngreat hulk grew large upon her view, with an absolute haze of romance\nand mystery hanging about its decks and rigging. It was a large ship,\nfinely equipped, according to the fashion of naval armament which was\nprevalent in those days; she was a three-decker; and the port holes of\nher guns looked in threatening ranks along the sides of the vessel.\nStill and majestic she lay upon the quiet river; a very wonderful\nfloating home indeed, and unlike all else she had ever known, to\nDolly's apprehension. How she and the rest were ever to get on board\nwas an insoluble problem to her, as to most of them; and the chair that\nwas presently lowered along the ship's side to receive them, seemed a\nvery precarious sort of means of transport. However, the getting aboard\nwas safely accomplished; one by one they were hoisted up; and Dolly's\nfeet stood upon the great main deck. And the first view was perfectly\nsatisfactory, and even went far beyond her imaginings. She found\nherself standing under a mixed confusion of masts and spars and sails,\nmarvellous to behold, which yet she also saw was no confusion at all,\nbut complicated and systematic order. How much those midshipmen must\nhave to learn, though, if they were to know the names and uses and\nhandling of every spar and every rope and each sail among them! as\nDolly knew they must. Her eye came back to the deck. What order there\ntoo; what neatness; why it was beautiful; and the uniforms here and\nthere, and the sailors' hats and jackets, filled up the picture to her\nheart's desire. Dolly breathed a full breath of satisfaction.\n\nThe Captain of the \"Achilles\" made his appearance, Captain Barbour. He\nwas a thick-set, grizzly haired man, rather short, not handsome at all;\nand yet with an air of authority unmistakably clothing him like a\ngarment of power and dignity. Plainly this man's word was law, and the\ngirls stood in awe of him. He was known to Mrs. Delancy; and now she\nwent on to present formally all her young people to him. The captain\nreturned the courtesy by calling up and introducing to her and them\nsome of his officers; and then they went to a review of the ship.\n\nIt took a long while. Between Mrs. Delancy and Captain Barbour a lively\nconversation was carried on; Dolly thought he was explaining things to\nthe lady that she did not understand; but though it might be the case\nnow and then, I think the talk moved mainly upon less technical\nmatters. Dolly could not get near enough to hear what it was, at any\nrate. The young lieutenants, too, were taken up with playing the host\nto the older young ladies of the party. If _they_ received instruction\nalso by the way, Dolly could not tell; the laughing hardly looked like\nit. She and the other young ones at any rate followed humbly at the\ntail of everything, and just came up to a clear view of some detail\nwhen the others were moving away. There was nobody to help Dolly\nunderstand anything; nevertheless, she wandered in a fairy vision of\nwonderland. Into the cabins, down to the forecastle, down to the gun\ndeck. What could equal the black strangeness of _that_ view! and what\ncould it all mean? Dolly wished for her Uncle Edward, or some one, to\nanswer a thousand questions. She had been reading about the guns, she\nlooked curiously now at the realities, of which she had studied the\npictures; recognised here a detail and there a detail, but remaining\nhugely ignorant of the whole and of the bearing of the several parts\nupon each other. Yet she did not know how time flew; she did not know\nthat she was getting tired; from one strange thing to another she\nfollowed her leaders about; very much alone indeed, for even the other\ngirls of her own age were staring at a different class of objects, and\ncould hardly be said to see what she saw, much less were ready to ask\nwhat she wanted to ask. Dolly went round in a confused dream.\n\nAt last the party had gone everywhere that such a party could go;\nCaptain Barbour had spared them the lower gun deck. They came back to\nthe captain's cabin, where a very pleasant lunch was served to the\nladies. It was served, that is, to those who could get it, to those who\nwere near enough and old enough to put in a claim by right of\nappearance. Dolly and one or two more who were undeniably little girls\nstood a bad chance, hanging about on the outskirts of the crowd, for\nthe cabin would not take them all in; and hearing a distant sound of\nclinking glass and silver and words of refreshment. It was all they\nseemed likely to get; and when a kindly elderly officer had taken pity\non the child and given Dolly a biscuit, she concluded to resign the\nrest of the unattainable luncheon and make the most of her other\nopportunities while she had them. Eating the biscuit, which she was\nvery glad of, she wandered off by herself, along the deck; looking\nagain carefully at all she saw; for her eyes were greedy of seeing.\nSails,--what strange shapes; and how close rolled up some of them were!\nRopes,--what a multitude; and cables. Coils of them on deck; and if she\nlooked up, an endless tracery of lines seen against the blue sky. There\nwas a sailor going up something like a rope ladder; going up and up;\nhow could he? and how far could he go? Dolly almost grew dizzy gazing\nat him.\n\n\"What are you looking after, little one?\" a voice near her asked. An\nunceremonious address, certainly; frankly put; but the voice was not\nunkindly or uncivil, and\n\nQuestion: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it."}]}