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was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

charitably

How many times the word 'charitably' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

need

How many times the word 'need' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

bring

How many times the word 'bring' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

repaired

How many times the word 'repaired' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

bent

How many times the word 'bent' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

ole

How many times the word 'ole' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

dashed

How many times the word 'dashed' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

characterize

How many times the word 'characterize' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

departure

How many times the word 'departure' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

can

How many times the word 'can' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

knowledge

How many times the word 'knowledge' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

saying

How many times the word 'saying' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

incident

How many times the word 'incident' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

scheme

How many times the word 'scheme' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

absolutely

How many times the word 'absolutely' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

may

How many times the word 'may' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

library

How many times the word 'library' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

question

How many times the word 'question' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

power

How many times the word 'power' appears in the text?

was able to enjoy Mr. Price's conversation almost uninterruptedly. He had much to tell, and she to ask, of London and their mutual friends there, of his stay in Portsmouth and the King's visit to review the ships, of the shooting parties at Mansfield and the astonishing sagacity of his cousin's new dog. Georgiana heard scraps of it, and noticed with satisfaction the good understanding that seemed to exist. "It is much the wisest beginning," she thought. "Far better to have a basis of common interests on which to found a friendship before love comes, than to rush blindly into a violent attachment, which may as rapidly subside. Mr. Price will gradually bring out the best that is in Kitty. He will care for the same things she does, but more moderately; and he will develop her finer taste. She will have so much to make her happy that her charm of nature will not fade." Mr. Price was evidently too sensible to expect to have the exclusive enjoyment of Kitty's company in such a small party. He was ready to reply to anyone who might address him, seemed to wish to get acquainted with Mrs. Bingley, and always had a lively word or glance for his cousin opposite. Tom Bertram would put up with a greater amount of good-natured teasing and joking from his cousin than he had ever done from anyone in his life; but his illness had sobered him, and though not much less careless and selfish than formerly, he entertained a secret admiration for the younger man, who had already done so much with his own life, and he had shown himself strongly amenable to influence from that quarter. To exercise an influence was the last thing William Price would have thought of doing; and yet it was entirely through his half-laughing, half-serious representations that Tom had been induced to settle down at home, to interest himself in the work of managing the estate, and to show more consideration for his parents. At the moment, he had allowed himself to be carried off from home, knowing that it was part of a general scheme to distract his mind from a matrimonial entanglement in which he was on the verge of becoming involved, and which his family cordially disliked; but there was reason to fear that Miss Isabella Thorpe had played her cards too well, and that in spite of the efforts of friends she would eventually reign at Mansfield Park as the next Lady Bertram. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, William Price immediately approached Georgiana, and made a few remarks upon indifferent subjects, until the attention of the others being directed to a story narrated by Mr. Bertram, he inquired if she had heard anything more of Miss Crawford since their last meeting. Owing to Elizabeth's reticence on the subject, Georgiana was able to answer, with truth, that she had heard nothing. When she had spoken, her reply seemed to her so curt that she added: "My sister, Mrs. Darcy, has written to a friend--to Mrs. Wentworth, in fact, to make inquiries, but I do not know with what result." "To Mrs. Wentworth?" repeated William Price. "Then, of course, that means you know what I was so churlish as to refuse to tell you, that evening at Mrs. Hurst's--Sir Walter Elliot's name. I hope you have forgiven me, Miss Darcy, and will understand why I did not feel at liberty to repeat it at that time." "I am sure you were right, Mr. Price, and indeed we have never heard the rumour confirmed yet," said Georgiana. "I wish I had seen Miss Crawford again, but there was no opportunity." "I did not see her again, either," said William. "I had to leave town directly after, and when I returned they were gone. I wish I could learn something! I so trust it may not be true; for Miss Crawford to marry that man would be not one, but a thousand pities. It is difficult to understand why anyone should make a so-called marriage of convenience; but one feels that she of all people is worthy of a better fate." "One must hope, if it really is decided upon, that it is not altogether a mere convenience; that that there is some mutual regard also," said Georgiana. "Oh, no doubt, there is a great deal of regard on _his_ side, but he is not the sort of man to appreciate her properly," rejoined Mr. Price. "If you knew him, Miss Darcy, even your kindness of heart would fail to find suitable excuses." "I know Miss Crawford's friends are dissatisfied about it," said Georgiana; "but I cannot help feeling that there is no need for her to make any marriage at all unless she is confident it will conduce to her happiness, so that, whatever she is doing, one must assume that she is using her judgment." "You put the case so admirably, Miss Darcy, that I declare you have nearly consoled me. It is just what I have tried to remind myself of, that she can afford to marry where she chooses, and as there is no compulsion except her own good nature, I can hardly believe she will make such an unwise choice. That absolutely settles it; I believe you have got private information, which you have conveyed to me from your own mind without speaking a word, and which has reassured me." "No, indeed, I have no private information," replied Georgiana with a faint smile, "and I think you have reassured yourself by your own close knowledge of Miss Crawford's character." "I may know Miss Crawford better, but in matters of this kind women are far better judges of one another than are men of them. You read each other as you would yourselves, and deduce each other's motives from your knowledge of your own; consequently, you bring a far keener insight to bear than we can." "I think that perhaps women understand each other better, and it is natural that they should," said Georgiana, after a moment's reflection. "But then you must remember that they are expected to acquire the habit of entering into the feelings of others. Their position as onlookers in the active world enables them to find their pleasure in studying the characters of those around them, and their happiness is in proportion to the amount of sympathy and comprehension which is excited in themselves." "That is too modest an estimation of the qualities of your sex, Miss Darcy. I should go further, and say that some persons do not need to acquire the habit you mention, for they have naturally such quick and generous sympathies, such a power of reading with true kindliness the dispositions of others, and drawing out the best that is in them, that I think it is impossible for them to receive more happiness than they give. You must have met some such; and that is what I mean by a woman's power of insight." He looked at her earnestly as he said this, and Georgiana had never seen him so grave. That he meant Kitty, she had not a moment's doubt; and they seemed to be within half a sentence of her name. She fully expected his next words to be: "There is someone we both know, I think, Miss Darcy," or something similar, and in her confusion, she did not stop to reflect how unlikely it was that he would speak so openly when Kitty was standing a few yards away. But as he continued to look at her without saying anything further, she strove to interrupt a pause which threatened to become embarrassing, and murmured, not very collectedly: "Yes, indeed it is so. My brother's wife, Mrs. Darcy," she added, not daring to show her thoughts were following the same direction as his, "is one of those you were describing. She understands everyone so well; she knows what one would say even when one has the greatest difficulty in expressing it. I think she is the cleverest person I have ever met." She thought he looked a little disappointed at her change of theme, but he bowed, and said courteously that he had a great wish to meet Mrs. Darcy. Georgiana caught at this remark as a means of extricating himself from a conversation which was almost too interesting to be pursued just then. "I hope very much that you will meet her," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Bingley has mentioned it, but there is to be a ball at Pemberley next week, and my sister hoped Mr. and Mrs. Bingley would bring you all over with them." William's face displayed the pleasure he felt, before he could give utterance to it, and Georgiana, recollecting that she had not intended to give the invitation, but to leave to Kitty the gratification of doing so, turned round impulsively and called to her friend, who was standing close by Jane's chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, but casting many wistful glances towards Georgiana and her companion. "Kitty, I have been telling Mr. Price about the ball," said Georgiana, as Kitty darted towards them; "that is, that we hope he is coming to it; but you must tell him what an achievement it is to have persuaded Elizabeth and my brother. We owe it entirely to your suggestion that there is going to be any ball." "Oh, Georgiana, why did you tell Mr. Price? I was keeping it for a great surprise," exclaimed Kitty reproachfully; and turning to William, she demanded his approval for the scheme, the details of which were quickly expounded. William gave a proper meed of praise and admiration, and Georgiana presently slipped away to join the others, who were preparing to sit down to a round game; but William and Kitty remained talking together until tea was brought in. Chapter XVI The following day the sportsmen went out early and returned late, and as some friends from the neighbourhood were dining at Desborough, there was no opportunity for much conversation between the young ladies and Mr. Bingley's guests. Kitty passed their chief of the day in writing a long letter to Mrs. Knightley, and Georgiana was taken possession of by Miss Bingley, who wished to practice vocal and instrumental duets. Miss Bingley had a good deal to say, during the intervals of their performance, about Mr. Price, whom she acknowledged she liked very much, and she endeavoured to prove to Georgiana, by a number of arguments, the improbability of his having any matrimonial intentions in general, and towards Kitty in particular. Georgiana would not discuss the point with her. Her own esteem for Mr. Price depended on his not disappointing Kitty, and she would admit no suspicion which might imperil it. On the third afternoon, the shooting party having returned earlier on account of bad weather, they were all assembled in the library. Bingley was showing Mr. Bertram some hunting prints that hung on the walls, and the rest were gathered round the fire, the ladies sitting, and William Price leaning on the overmantel glancing at the pieces of porcelain and the miniatures arranged upon it. "What beautiful little Chinese figures these are, Mrs. Bingley," he suddenly exclaimed. "They are genuinely old, are they not? A man I know brought back just such a pair from Hong Kong, and I know he regarded them as priceless. I do not think they can be imitated in Europe." "Yes, I believe they are really old," replied Mrs. Bingley. "I do not know the history of them, but they have been in Mr. Bingley's family for a long time, and they are special favourites of his; perhaps you can tell us, Caroline?" Miss Bingley was beginning to speak when she was interrupted by a cry of dismay from Mr. Price. He had taken the little figure in his hand to examine it more closely, and the head had immediately fallen off and rolled on the hearth. Fortunately a thick rug had received it, and after a search it was discovered intact; but Mr. Price was overwhelmed with self-reproach for his carelessness, until stopped by Mrs. Bingley saying: "You need not mind, Mr. Price, for it was not in the least your fault. The head was broken off already. Look, it has been slung between the shoulders by a piece of wire. I should have mended it, but could not manage to attach a new length of wire." "I am relieved to find I am not the guilty party," said Mr. Price; "that is, if you are quite sure, Mrs. Bingley." "Indeed I am; and Kitty," she added, turning toward her sister, "perhaps you can help me to clear Mr. Price's character. Do you happen to know anything about the breaking of this little mandarin? We found it so a few days after you left, and no one in the house could account for it. I have always meant to ask you about it, but had forgotten until now." Owing to the comparative dimness of the firelight, Jane was unable to perceive her sister's growing confusion; but it became evident in the embarrassed pause which followed her question. Kitty began to speak, broke off, and began again, stumbling over her words: "I had thought it had been broken--that is, I knew it had--but something put it out of my head--I forgot it too till now." "What a pity you did not mention it," said Miss Bingley severely; "it might have been worse injured next time it was touched by anyone not knowing the head was loose." "Oh, well, never mind, dear Kitty," said Jane kindly; "it does not matter; it can easily be repaired, no doubt." Kitty, on the verge of tears, looked distressfully from one to the other, torn between her dislike to recalling the occasion, and her desire to exonerate herself in the eyes of William Price. The latter consideration prevailed, and addressing Jane, she murmured with deepest blushes; "It was not I who broke it, it was Mr. Morland." "Mr. Morland!" repeated Jane, perplexed. "Yes, it was that last morning he was here. We--he was in the library, you know. He had the Chinese figure in his hand, and I recollect noticing it was in two pieces. I never thought of it again until now, and I suppose he forgot it too." Kitty's self-consciousness, increased as it was by the knowledge that Jane and Georgiana would now perfectly understand the reason for the disaster which had befallen the porcelain ornament, quite mystified her other two hearers, to whom the explanation taken by itself would have been sufficiently simple. All they could plainly perceive was that the association of Mr. Morland with the incident made Kitty extremely uncomfortable, and they were left to draw what conclusions they might by her hasty departure from the room. William Price, with a delicacy of feeling for which Georgiana's heart went out to him, immediately filled up the moment of awkwardness by reverting to the original subject of their discussion, which he still held in his hand. "At any rate," he said, smiling, "I have helped to decapitate this poor mandarin, so it seems only fair that I should try to mend him. Have I your permission, Mrs. Bingley? I believe, with a fresh bit of wire and some sealing-wax, I could make him nod as benevolently as ever." Bingley was called upon to produce the necessary articles, and being warned by a glance from his wife not to pursue his inquiry as to whether they had discovered who had damaged the old fellow, the incident seemed likely to arouse no further remark. Georgiana evaded Miss Bingley's eyes, and went away as soon as she could to Kitty's room, finding her friend lying upon the bed and weeping bitterly. "Georgiana, what must he have thought?" she began instantly, throwing herself into her friend's arms. "Why did Jane ask me that unfortunate question, just at that time? It could not have happened worse. I was thinking about it a little, because, you know, I had not been in that room since Mr. Morland and I were there together. We were standing in just the same place as we were all in to-night, and it made me quite miserable to remember it. And now Mr. Price will not know what to think, hearing Mr. Morland's name like that. He will suspect something, and perhaps it will prevent him from speaking. I wish we were back at Pemberley; I knew things would never go so well here again." Georgiana comforted her, assured her that what had happened would never make the slightest difference to Mr. Price, laughingly reproached her with having run away, saying that no one would have perceived anything out of the ordinary but for that, and counselled her to behave just as usual when she met the others again, and everything would be forgotten. Nevertheless, Kitty was far from comfortable during the rest of their stay, and was in continual expectation of some occurrence which might affect Mr. Price's attitude towards her, although the cheerful friendliness of his manner never varied. This apprehension rendered her particularly uneasy the following day, which was Sunday. They all went to church, where the service was read by a stranger, and Kitty's sensibility was sorely tried by having to listen to various questions asked by their visitors during the walk back. Was that the regular clergyman? He was absent; ah, indeed! Was he a pleasant neighbour? a good preacher? And so that was the Rectory; what a commodious, attractive-looking house! No doubt the parson was a married man, and he was certainly a lucky fellow to be so circumstanced, commented Mr. Bertram. Bingley made brief answers out of compassion for Kitty, and Jane began a conversation with the two girls about something different; but she could not attend. It was so distressing to think of Mr. Morland, whom Bingley praised so highly and whom the others thought so enviable, having been driven away from home on her account; that a man so charming and so desirable should have fallen in love with her when she was not able to care for him. There seemed something particularly unfortunate, particularly wasteful, about the whole affair! If he had been a Mr. Collins, that nobody, not even Maria Lucas, would have minded refusing! Poor Kitty walked home silently, and as far from Mr. Price as possible, with her muff held up to conceal a countenance which she knew was unfit to be seen. On Monday, Bingley and Mr. Bertram went out hunting, and the ladies, escorted by Mr. Price, drove to the spot where the foxhounds were to meet, in the hope of seeing a little sport. Bingley had offered to mount Mr. Price also, but the latter had declined, laughingly declaring that, like all sailors, he was not much of a horseman, and though he had once hunted from Mansfield Park when he was a careless youngster, he thought it would be wiser not to venture over the Derbyshire country, with its rough moors and high stone walls, on a borrowed horse. "It is most kind of you, Mr. Bingley," he said; "and for my cousin, it is all right, for he has hunted here before. But I am sure you would not be pleased, if you saw me come crashing down at the first big fence, with your hundred-guinea hunter doubled up in the further ditch." The ladies held up hands of horror, but Bingley, much amused, said he would not believe a word of it, and that he felt sure Mr. Price could ride as well as he could shoot. William shook his head. "I have ridden all sorts of horses at different times, when occasion has required it, and have even managed to adhere to the animal as a rule; but my good luck might desert me to-day. Perhaps you will let me go for a jogging ride along the lanes before I go, on your least valuable horse." "Seeing that I am in charge of you just now, William, I highly applaud your decision," said his cousin, "as I don't want to have to send you back to Portsmouth with a broken neck, which is certainly what could happen." "You in charge of me! I like that," exclaimed William. "Say much more, and I will borrow a gypsy's donkey and come to meet you on it, announcing to everybody that I am bringing along your second mount." Mrs. Bingley was a little afraid of the cold wind, and decided not to go, so Mr. Price took his seat in the barouche with the other three, and greatly enhanced the gaiety of their party. They drove about for more than two hours, and when at last, the hunt having gone away among the hills, they decided to turn homewards, Mr. Price created consternation among his fair companions by asking permission to get out and walk. "Walk, Mr. Price?" exclaimed Miss Bingley, who, placed on the front seat, had assumed the direction of the party. "Why should you want to walk? And in this desolate wilderness! Why, we must be six or seven miles from home." "Yes, I thought it was about that," said William "I rather wanted a walk, and do you know, I like this desolate wilderness, as you call it. I should enjoy exploring my way homewards, and I have noted all the landmarks. It is so cold, too; a splendid day for a walk." "Oh, Mr. Price, do not go; we are all so snugly tucked in here," said Kitty imploringly. "Oh, if you prefer walking, pray do not let us detain you," said Miss Bingley, speaking at the same moment, and in rather an offended voice. William looked in surprise from one to the other; it had evidently not occurred to him for one moment that he would be missed by any of them. Unconsciously, his eye sought Georgiana's, and she said quickly: "Mr. Price must be cold with sitting still so long; I expect he would enjoy a walk. It really is not so far; from the top of the hill one can see Kympton Church, I know, and on foot one can take an almost straight route." The carriage had stopped and the servants awaited their orders. William remained irresolute; he had one lady's leave to go, another was doing her best to appear indifferent, and the third plied him with entreaties not to break up their comfortable little party. Georgiana was amused, but also a little ashamed to see Caroline and Kitty, for once united in the object of their wishes, showing those wishes so plainly. It was clear that William Price felt the awkwardness thus created, for his hesitation only lasted a second or two, and he said lightly: "Why, of course, I will not get out, if it would be disturbing anybody. Probably the negotiation of those short cuts would make me very late for dinner. Shall they drive on?" Miss Bingley gave the order in a dignified tone, and assured him that he had done wisely to desist, for he certainly would have been late. Georgiana could not help remarking that it was a pity he should have missed his walk, for the others would not be in before five; but he gave her a glance and a half smile, which showed her that he was not allowing it to trouble him. Kitty, delighted that Mr. Price had given this proof of a wish to please him, talked all the way home, and described with great animation several _dreadful_ walks that Bingley had taken her on the moors, when, according to her account, they had narrowly escaped death on many occasions--wild cattle, dangerous bogs, rushing torrents and venomous snakes being among the risks to be encountered on such expeditions. Mr. Price listened with interest, but his courage did not appear to be shaken, for as soon as they descended from the carriage, he paused only to glance at the clock, and to divest himself of his heavy coat, before asking Miss Darcy if she would accompany him on a walk. "It will be as short as, or as long, as brisk or as leisurely, as you are disposed for," he said, and Georgiana declined with real regret. "I should have enjoyed it very much, Mr. Price, but I think I had better not; it is rather late, and the others may be wanting me before dinner. Besides," she added, as she saw his disappointed look, "I know you want a good walk, and you can go further if you have not to adapt yourself to the slow paces of a lady." "I should esteem it an honour to have to adapt myself to yours," replied William Price, with the quick, bright smile which was so noticeable in him. "We must all go together to-morrow morning," said Georgiana, as she turned away. "Mr. Bingley can show us what is the best direction. I hope it will keep fine, but it looks very like snow." Mr. Price did not move from where he stood for some minutes, and Georgiana, as she ascended the stairs, felt strongly to return and accede to his suggestion, but the fear that Kitty would not like it withheld her. She wished that he had asked Kitty instead, or as well, for although anyone might well have assumed--after the descriptions she had given--that a country walk, for its own sake, was to her the most uncongenial form of amusement, yet Georgiana knew well that it would be viewed in a very different light were a particular companion available. The promised walk did not take place, for the snow, which had been threatening, fell the following day, not thickly, but with enough of fog and dampness in the atmosphere to make the fireside seem by far the most agreeable place. The gentlemen shot in the first part of the morning, but returned home soon after one, ready for any entertainment that they might be expected to provide or be provided with; and Tom Bertram's inclinations, as usual, were in favour of the former. Not being a card-player, or enthusiast for music, and having found Mr. Bingley to be at billiards an adversary unworthy of his skill, he was obliged to seek some other method of spending a winter's afternoon, and without hesitation he broached to the assembled party his idea that they should act some charades. Mrs. Bingley looked doubtful, and William Price gave his cousin no support; but the notion was warmly taken up by Bingley, his sister and sister-in-law, and Mr. Bertram set himself to persuade Mrs. Bingley that, next to a real play, charades were the most delightful things imaginable, and that they had a party collected about them remarkably well qualified to undertake any and every kind of character. His hostess proved not difficult to persuade when she perceived what pleasurable anticipations were aroused by the suggestion; and only needed to be assured by her husband that it was a capital notion, and the young people would thoroughly enjoy it, to promise help of whatever kind was needed. William Price was ready to enter into it, when it became evident that it was the general wish; and even Georgiana began to be interested, and concealed her nervousness at the idea of taking part. "You need not be frightened, Georgiana," said Miss Bingley; "all you will be required to do is to stand perfectly still and assume a particular expression. Louisa and I have often taken part in them; there is no acting, it is all the pose." "Excuse me, Miss Bingley," interposed Mr. Bertram, "the kind of charades I propose we should do involves a certain amount of movement--acting, in short; and others require impromptu speeches. I recollect once, at the house of my friend--" "I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Bertram; the correct charade is not acting at all; it is simply a series of pictures, or tableaux, to represent the various syllables." The discussion threatened to become keen, especially when the two younger girls joined in protesting that they could not possibly recite any impromptu speeches; but Bingley finally settled the point by agreeing with Mr. Bertram's vehement assertion that it would be much more amusing if they acted their parts, and that he could show them how to do it in such a way that no speaking would be necessary, though Miss Bingley doubted if _all_ the company would be equal to such a demand upon their capabilities. The next point was to choose the words, a matter of prodigious importance, for which many books were brought out and consulted, and the merits and possibilities of each word exhaustively debated. It was not until they renewed the consideration of the subject at the dinner-table that they made the discovery that if all of them were to appear in different scenes of the same charade, there would be no one left to guess the meaning. "This becomes really serious," said Bingley. "If it was a play, we could act to ourselves, and the chairs and tables, and be perfectly happy; but the very existence of a charade is threatened if no one is ignorant of it. And from what I hear of intended costumes, it will take the rest of the evening for our preparations, so that we shall be ready to begin the performance just as our ladies have to leave us to-morrow." "But who is leaving to-morrow? Not Miss Bennet and Miss Darcy?" exclaimed Tom Bertram in real alarm. "This cannot be allowed. Pray, Mr. Bingley, use your authority. I am sure they could remain another day." "Oh, yes, I am sure we could," cried Kitty; "they could not wish us to miss the charades--it would spoil everything if we could not be

leaning

How many times the word 'leaning' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

sure

How many times the word 'sure' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

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was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

headland

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was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

dead

How many times the word 'dead' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

made

How many times the word 'made' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

months

How many times the word 'months' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

gracious

How many times the word 'gracious' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

distinct

How many times the word 'distinct' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

see

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was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

both

How many times the word 'both' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

evening

How many times the word 'evening' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

manner

How many times the word 'manner' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

french

How many times the word 'french' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

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was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

understood

How many times the word 'understood' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

coming

How many times the word 'coming' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

herself

How many times the word 'herself' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

tall

How many times the word 'tall' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

law

How many times the word 'law' appears in the text?

was allowed to live!" "I don't think there are many to beat her, as far as malice goes. But you'll find out for yourself. I shouldn't be surprised if she were to tell you before long that you were to marry the niece." "I shouldn't think that such very hard lines either," said Brooke Burgess. "I've no doubt you may have her if you like," said Barty, "in spite of Mr. Gibson. Only I should recommend you to take care and get the money first." When Brooke went back to the house in the Close, Miss Stanbury was quite fussy in her silence. She would have given much to have been told something about Barty, and, above all, to have learned what Barty had said about herself. But she was far too proud even to mention the old man's name of her own accord. She was quite sure that she had been abused. She guessed, probably with tolerable accuracy, the kind of things that had been said of her, and suggested to herself what answer Brooke would make to such accusations. But she had resolved to cloak it all in silence, and pretended for a while not to remember the young man's declared intention when he left the house. "It seems odd to me," said Brooke, "that Uncle Barty should always live alone as he does. He must have a dreary time of it." "I don't know anything about your Uncle Barty's manner of living." "No;--I suppose not. You and he are not friends." "By no means, Brooke." "He lives there all alone in that poky bank-house, and nobody ever goes near him. I wonder whether he has any friends in the city?" "I really cannot tell you anything about his friends. And, to tell you the truth, Brooke, I don't want to talk about your uncle. Of course, you can go to see him when you please, but I'd rather you didn't tell me of your visits afterwards." "There is nothing in the world I hate so much as a secret," said he. He had no intention in this of animadverting upon Miss Stanbury's secret enmity, nor had he purposed to ask any question as to her relations with the old man. He had alluded to his dislike of having secrets of his own. But she misunderstood him. "If you are anxious to know--" she said, becoming very red in the face. "I am not at all curious to know. You quite mistake me." "He has chosen to believe,--or to say that he believed,--that I wronged him in regard to his brother's will. I nursed his brother when he was dying,--as I considered it to be my duty to do. I cannot tell you all that story. It is too long, and too sad. Romance is very pretty in novels, but the romance of a life is always a melancholy matter. They are most happy who have no story to tell." "I quite believe that." "But your Uncle Barty chose to think,--indeed, I hardly know what he thought. He said that the will was a will of my making. When it was made I and his brother were apart; we were not even on speaking terms. There had been a quarrel, and all manner of folly. I am not very proud when I look back upon it. It is not that I think myself better than others; but your Uncle Brooke's will was made before we had come together again. When he was ill it was natural that I should go to him,--after all that had passed between us. Eh, Brooke?" "It was womanly." "But it made no difference about the will. Mr. Bartholomew Burgess might have known that at once, and must have known it afterwards. But he has never acknowledged that he was wrong;--never even yet." "He could not bring himself to do that, I should say." "The will was no great triumph to me. I could have done without it. As God is my judge, I would not have lifted up my little finger to get either a part or the whole of poor Brooke's money. If I had known that a word would have done it, I would have bitten my tongue out before it should have been spoken." She had risen from her seat, and was speaking with a solemnity that almost filled her listener with awe. She was a woman short of stature; but now, as she stood over him, she seemed to be tall and majestic. "But when the man was dead," she continued, "and the will was there,--the property was mine, and I was bound in duty to exercise the privileges and bear the responsibilities which the dead man had conferred upon me. It was Barty, then, who sent a low attorney to me, offering me a compromise. What had I to compromise? Compromise! No. If it was not mine by all the right the law could give, I would sooner have starved than have had a crust of bread out of the money." She had now clenched both her fists, and was shaking them rapidly as she stood over him, looking down upon him. "Of course it was your own." "Yes. Though they asked me to compromise, and sent messages to me to frighten me;--both Barty and your Uncle Tom; ay, and your father too, Brooke; they did not dare to go to law. To law, indeed! If ever there was a good will in the world, the will of your Uncle Brooke was good. They could talk, and malign me, and tell lies as to dates, and strive to make my name odious in the county; but they knew that the will was good. They did not succeed very well in what they did attempt." "I would try to forget it all now, Aunt Stanbury." "Forget it! How is that to be done? How can the mind forget the history of its own life? No,--I cannot forget it. I can forgive it." "Then why not forgive it?" "I do. I have. Why else are you here?" "But forgive old Uncle Barty also!" "Has he forgiven me? Come now. If I wished to forgive him, how should I begin? Would he be gracious if I went to him? Does he love me, do you think,--or hate me? Uncle Barty is a good hater. It is the best point about him. No, Brooke, we won't try the farce of a reconciliation after a long life of enmity. Nobody would believe us, and we should not believe each other." "Then I certainly would not try." "I do not mean to do so. The truth is, Brooke, you shall have it all when I'm gone, if you don't turn against me. You won't take to writing for penny newspapers, will you, Brooke?" As she asked the question she put one of her hands softly on his shoulder. "I certainly shan't offend in that way." "And you won't be a Radical?" "No, not a Radical." "I mean a man to follow Beales and Bright, a republican, a putter-down of the Church, a hater of the Throne. You won't take up that line, will you, Brooke?" "It isn't my way at present, Aunt Stanbury. But a man shouldn't promise." "Ah me! It makes me sad when I think what the country is coming to. I'm told there are scores of members of Parliament who don't pronounce their h's. When I was young, a member of Parliament used to be a gentleman;--and they've taken to ordaining all manner of people. It used to be the case that when you met a clergyman you met a gentleman. By-the-bye, Brooke, what do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Mr. Gibson! To tell the truth, I haven't thought much about him." "But you must think about him. Perhaps you haven't thought about my niece, Dolly Stanbury?" "I think that she's an uncommonly nice girl." "She's not to be nice for you, young man. She's to be married to Mr. Gibson." "Are they engaged?" "Well, no; but I intend that they shall be. You won't begrudge that I should give my little savings to one of my own name?" "You don't know me, Aunt Stanbury, if you think that I should begrudge anything that you might do with your money." "Dolly has been here a month or two. I think it's three months since she came, and I do like her. She's soft and womanly, and hasn't taken up those vile, filthy habits which almost all the girls have adopted. Have you seen those Frenches with the things they have on their heads?" "I was speaking to them yesterday." "Nasty sluts! You can see the grease on their foreheads when they try to make their hair go back in the dirty French fashion. Dolly is not like that;--is she?" "She is not in the least like either of the Miss Frenches." "And now I want her to become Mrs. Gibson. He is quite taken." "Is he?" "Oh dear, yes. Didn't you see him the other night at dinner and afterwards? Of course he knows that I can give her a little bit of money, which always goes for something, Brooke. And I do think it would be such a nice thing for Dolly." "And what does Dolly think about it?" "There's the difficulty. She likes him well enough; I'm sure of that. And she has no stuck-up ideas about herself. She isn't one of those who think that almost nothing is good enough for them. But--" "She has an objection." "I don't know what it is. I sometimes think she is so bashful and modest she doesn't like to talk of being married,--even to an old woman like me." "Dear me! That's not the way of the age;--is it, Aunt Stanbury?" "It's coming to that, Brooke, that the girls will ask the men soon. Yes,--and that they won't take a refusal either. I do believe that Camilla French did ask Mr. Gibson." "And what did Mr. Gibson say?" "Ah;--I can't tell you that. He knows too well what he's about to take her. He's to come here on Friday at eleven, and you must be out of the way. I shall be out of the way too. But if Dolly says a word to you before that, mind you make her understand that she ought to accept Gibson." "She's too good for him, according to my thinking." "Don't you be a fool. How can any young woman be too good for a gentleman and a clergyman? Mr. Gibson is a gentleman. Do you know,--only you must not mention this,--that I have a kind of idea that we could get Nuncombe Putney for him. My father had the living, and my brother; and I should like it to go on in the family." No opportunity came in the way of Brooke Burgess to say anything in favour of Mr. Gibson to Dorothy Stanbury. There did come to be very quickly a sort of intimacy between her and her aunt's favourite; but she was one not prone to talk about her own affairs. And as to such an affair as this,--a question as to whether she should or should not give herself in marriage to her suitor,--she, who could not speak of it even to her own sister without a blush, who felt confused and almost confounded when receiving her aunt's admonitions and instigations on the subject, would not have endured to hear Brooke Burgess speak on the matter. Dorothy did feel that a person easier to know than Brooke had never come in her way. She had already said as much to him as she had spoken to Mr. Gibson in the three months that she had made his acquaintance. They had talked about Exeter, and about Mrs. MacHugh, and the cathedral, and Tennyson's poems, and the London theatres, and Uncle Barty, and the family quarrel. They had become quite confidential with each other on some matters. But on this heavy subject of Mr. Gibson and his proposal of marriage not a word had been said. When Brooke once mentioned Mr. Gibson on the Thursday morning, Dorothy within a minute had taken an opportunity of escaping from the room. But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French's house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy's company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. "Don't you stay at home for me, my dear," Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. "Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson," Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. "Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear," Miss Stanbury replied. "And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper." The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so. There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French's drawing-room;--the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also,--knowing that there would be a rubber. "Their naked shoulders don't hurt me," Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. "I'm not a young man. I don't care what they do to themselves." "You might say as much if they went naked altogether," Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. "If nobody else complained, I shouldn't," said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. "What does it matter to me," said Mrs. MacHugh, "how nasty she is? She's not going to be my wife." "Ugh!" exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust. Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady's noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury's influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson's safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger. "I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?" said Camilla. "A month. That is ever so long;--isn't it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it." "I'm sure we are very much flattered." "As for you, Miss French, I've heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here." "Who can have spoken to you about me?" "You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?" "Not about me." "Does he not? And do you suppose I don't hear from Miss Stanbury?" "But she hates me. I know that." "And do you hate her?" "No, indeed. I've the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn't she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we've known her ever so long, six or seven years,--since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls." "What sort of notions?" "She'd like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she'd say I was flirting with you, because we're sitting together." "But you are not; are you?" "Of course I am not." "I wish you would," said Brooke. "I shouldn't know how to begin. I shouldn't indeed. I don't know what flirting means, and I don't know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other." "But very often they don't, you know." "I call that stupid," said Camilla. "And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don't care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It's my opinion that still waters run the deepest." "No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow," said Brooke. "You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess." "I meant nothing of the kind." "But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That's what I call still water. She runs deep enough." "The quietest young lady I ever saw in my life." "Exactly. So quiet, but so--clever. What do you think of Mr. Gibson?" "Everybody is asking me what I think of Mr. Gibson." "You know what they say. They say he is to marry Dorothy Stanbury. Poor man! I don't think his own consent has ever been asked yet;--but, nevertheless, it's settled." "Just at present he seems to me to be,--what shall I say?--I oughtn't to say flirting with your sister; ought I?" "Miss Stanbury would say so if she were here, no doubt. But the fact is, Mr. Burgess, we've known him almost since we were infants, and of course we take an interest in his welfare. There has never been anything more than that. Arabella is nothing more to him than I am. Once, indeed--; but, however--; that does not signify. It would be nothing to us, if he really liked Dorothy Stanbury. But as far as we can see,--and we do see a good deal of him,--there is no such feeling on his part. Of course we haven't asked. We should not think of such a thing. Mr. Gibson may do just as he likes for us. But I am not quite sure that Dorothy Stanbury is just the girl that would make him a good wife. Of course when you've known a person seven or eight years you do get anxious about his happiness. Do you know, we think her,--perhaps a little,--sly." In the meantime, Mr. Gibson was completely subject to the individual charms of Arabella. Camilla had been quite correct in a part of her description of their intimacy. She and her sister had known Mr. Gibson for seven or eight years; but nevertheless the intimacy could not with truth be said to have commenced during the infancy of the young ladies, even if the word were used in its legal sense. Seven or eight years, however, is a long acquaintance; and there was, perhaps, something of a real grievance in this Stanbury intervention. If it be a recognised fact in society that young ladies are in want of husbands, and that an effort on their part towards matrimony is not altogether impossible, it must be recognised also that failure will be disagreeable, and interference regarded with animosity. Miss Stanbury the elder was undoubtedly interfering between Mr. Gibson and the Frenches; and it is neither manly nor womanly to submit to interference with one's dearest prospects. It may, perhaps, be admitted that the Miss Frenches had shown too much open ardour in their pursuit of Mr. Gibson. Perhaps there should have been no ardour and no pursuit. It may be that the theory of womanhood is right which forbids to women any such attempts,--which teaches them that they must ever be pursued, never the pursuers. As to that there shall be no discourse at present. But it must be granted that whenever the pursuit has been attempted, it is not in human nature to abandon it without an effort. That the French girls should be very angry with Miss Stanbury, that they should put their heads together with the intention of thwarting her, that they should think evil things of poor Dorothy, that they should half despise Mr. Gibson, and yet resolve to keep their hold upon him as a chattel and a thing of value that was almost their own, was not perhaps much to their discredit. "You are a good deal at the house in the Close now," said Arabella, in her lowest voice,--in a voice so low that it was almost melancholy. "Well; yes. Miss Stanbury, you know, has always been a staunch friend of mine. And she takes an interest in my little church." People say that girls are sly; but men can be sly, too, sometimes. "It seems that she has taken you so much away from us, Mr. Gibson." "I don't know why you should say that, Miss French." "Perhaps I am wrong. One is apt to be sensitive about one's friends. We seem to have known you so well. There is nobody else in Exeter that mamma regards as she does you. But, of course, if you are happy with Miss Stanbury that is everything." "I am speaking of the old lady," said Mr. Gibson, who, in spite of his slyness, was here thrown a little off his guard. "And I am speaking of the old lady too," said Arabella. "Of whom else should I be speaking?" "No;--of course not." "Of course," continued Arabella, "I hear what people say about the niece. One cannot help what one hears, you know, Mr. Gibson; but I don't believe that, I can assure you." As she said this, she looked into his face, as though waiting for an answer; but Mr. Gibson had no answer ready. Then Arabella told herself that if anything was to be done it must be done at once. What use was there in beating round the bush, when the only chance of getting the game was to be had by dashing at once into the thicket. "I own I should be glad," she said, turning her eyes away from him, "if I could hear from your own mouth that it is not true." Mr. Gibson's position was one not to be envied. Were he willing to tell the very secrets of his soul to Miss French with the utmost candour, he could not answer her question either one way or the other, and he was not willing to tell her any of his secrets. It was certainly the fact, too, that there had been tender passages between him and Arabella. Now, when there have been such passages, and the gentleman is cross-examined by the lady, as Mr. Gibson was being cross-examined at the present moment,--the gentleman usually teaches himself to think that a little falsehood is permissible. A gentleman can hardly tell a lady that he has become tired of her, and has changed his mind. He feels the matter, perhaps, more keenly even than she does; and though, at all other times he may be a very Paladin in the cause of truth, in such strait as this he does allow himself some latitude. "You are only joking, of course," he said. "Indeed, I am not joking. I can assure you, Mr. Gibson, that the welfare of the friends whom I really love can never be a matter of joke to me. Mrs. Crumbie says that you positively are engaged to marry Dorothy Stanbury." "What does Mrs. Crumbie know about it?" "I dare say, nothing. It is not so;--is it?" "Certainly not." "And there is nothing in it;--is there?" "I wonder why people make these reports," said Mr. Gibson, prevaricating. [Illustration: "I wonder why people make these reports."] "It is a fabrication from beginning to end then," said Arabella, pressing the matter quite home. At this time she was very close to him, and though her words were severe, the glance from her eyes was soft. And the scent from her hair was not objectionable to him, as it would have been to Miss Stanbury. And the mode of her head-dress was not displeasing to him. And the folds of her dress, as they fell across his knee, were welcome to his feelings. He knew that he was as one under temptation, but he was not strong enough to bid the tempter avaunt. "Say that it is so, Mr. Gibson!" "Of course, it is not so," said Mr. Gibson--lying. "I am so glad. For of course, Mr. Gibson, when we heard it we thought a great deal about it. A man's happiness depends so much on whom he marries;--doesn't it? And a clergyman's more than anybody else's. And we didn't think she was quite the sort of woman that you would like. You see, she has had no advantages, poor thing. She has been shut up in a little country cottage all her life;--just a labourer's hovel, no more;--and though it wasn't her fault, of course, and we all pitied her, and were so glad when Miss Stanbury brought her to the Close;--still, you know, though one was very glad of her as an acquaintance, yet, you know, as a wife,--and for such a dear, dear friend--" She went on, and said many other things with equal enthusiasm, and then wiped her eyes, and then smiled and laughed. After that she declared that she was quite happy,--so happy; and so she left him. The poor man, after the falsehood had been extracted from him, said nothing more; but sat, in patience, listening to the raptures and enthusiasm of his friend. He knew that he had disgraced himself, and he knew also that his disgrace would be known, if Dorothy Stanbury should accept his offer on the morrow. And yet how hardly he had been used! What answer could he have given compatible both with the truth and with his own personal dignity? About half an hour afterwards he was walking back to Exeter with Brooke Burgess, and then Brooke did ask him a question or two. "Nice girls those Frenches, I think," said Brooke. "Very nice," said Mr. Gibson. "How Miss Stanbury does hate them," says Brooke. "Not hate them, I hope," said Mr. Gibson. "She doesn't love them;--does she?" "Well, as for love;--yes; in one sense,--I hope she does. Miss Stanbury, you know, is a woman who expresses herself strongly." "What would she say, if she were told that you and I were going to marry those two girls? We are both favourites, you know." "Dear me! What a very odd supposition," said Mr. Gibson. "For my part, I don't think I shall," said Brooke. "I don't suppose I shall either," said Mr. Gibson, with a gravity which was intended to convey some smattering of rebuke. "A fellow might do worse, you know," said Brooke. "For my part, I rather like girls with chignons, and all that sort of get-up. But the worst of it is, one can't marry two at a time." "That would be bigamy," said Mr. Gibson. "Just so," said Brooke. CHAPTER XXXVI. MISS STANBURY'S WRATH. Punctually at eleven o'clock on the Friday morning Mr. Gibson knocked at the door of the house in the Close. The reader must not imagine that he had ever wavered in his intention with regard to Dorothy Stanbury, because he had been driven into a corner by the pertinacious ingenuity of Miss French. He never for a moment thought of being false to Miss Stanbury the elder. Falseness of that nature would have been ruinous to him,--would have made him a marked man in the city all his days, and would probably have reached even to the bishop's ears. He was neither bad enough, nor audacious enough, nor foolish enough, for such perjury as that. And, moreover, though the wiles of Arabella had been potent with him, he very much preferred Dorothy Stanbury. Seven years of flirtation with a young lady is more trying to the affection than any duration of matrimony. Arabella had managed to awaken something of the old glow, but Mr. Gibson, as soon as he was alone, turned from her mentally in disgust. No! Whatever little trouble there might be in his way, it was clearly his duty to marry Dorothy Stanbury. She had the sweetest temper in the world, and blushed with the prettiest blush! She would have, moreover, two thousand pounds on the day she married, and there was no saying what other and greater pecuniary advantages might follow. His mind was quite made up; and during the whole morning he had been endeavouring to drive all disagreeable reminiscences of Miss French from his memory, and to arrange the words with which he would make his offer to Dorothy. He was aware that he need not be very particular about his words, as Dorothy, from

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How many times the word 'given' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

picked

How many times the word 'picked' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

wrong

How many times the word 'wrong' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

expected

How many times the word 'expected' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

such

How many times the word 'such' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

ran

How many times the word 'ran' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

bad

How many times the word 'bad' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

same

How many times the word 'same' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

blunt

How many times the word 'blunt' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

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was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

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was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

ascribed

How many times the word 'ascribed' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

steer

How many times the word 'steer' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

wooing

How many times the word 'wooing' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

consult

How many times the word 'consult' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

countenance

How many times the word 'countenance' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

ideas

How many times the word 'ideas' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

aimless

How many times the word 'aimless' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

why

How many times the word 'why' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

anxiety

How many times the word 'anxiety' appears in the text?

was behind her when she stood facing the fire and was struck,--was there any disarrangement of the kitchen, excepting such as she herself had made, in falling and bleeding. But, there was one remarkable piece of evidence on the spot. She had been struck with something blunt and heavy, on the head and spine; after the blows were dealt, something heavy had been thrown down at her with considerable violence, as she lay on her face. And on the ground beside her, when Joe picked her up, was a convict's leg-iron which had been filed asunder. Now, Joe, examining this iron with a smith's eye, declared it to have been filed asunder some time ago. The hue and cry going off to the Hulks, and people coming thence to examine the iron, Joe's opinion was corroborated. They did not undertake to say when it had left the prison-ships to which it undoubtedly had once belonged; but they claimed to know for certain that that particular manacle had not been worn by either of the two convicts who had escaped last night. Further, one of those two was already retaken, and had not freed himself of his iron. Knowing what I knew, I set up an inference of my own here. I believed the iron to be my convict's iron,--the iron I had seen and heard him filing at, on the marshes,--but my mind did not accuse him of having put it to its latest use. For I believed one of two other persons to have become possessed of it, and to have turned it to this cruel account. Either Orlick, or the strange man who had shown me the file. Now, as to Orlick; he had gone to town exactly as he told us when we picked him up at the turnpike, he had been seen about town all the evening, he had been in divers companies in several public-houses, and he had come back with myself and Mr. Wopsle. There was nothing against him, save the quarrel; and my sister had quarrelled with him, and with everybody else about her, ten thousand times. As to the strange man; if he had come back for his two bank-notes there could have been no dispute about them, because my sister was fully prepared to restore them. Besides, there had been no altercation; the assailant had come in so silently and suddenly, that she had been felled before she could look round. It was horrible to think that I had provided the weapon, however undesignedly, but I could hardly think otherwise. I suffered unspeakable trouble while I considered and reconsidered whether I should at last dissolve that spell of my childhood and tell Joe all the story. For months afterwards, I every day settled the question finally in the negative, and reopened and reargued it next morning. The contention came, after all, to this;--the secret was such an old one now, had so grown into me and become a part of myself, that I could not tear it away. In addition to the dread that, having led up to so much mischief, it would be now more likely than ever to alienate Joe from me if he believed it, I had a further restraining dread that he would not believe it, but would assort it with the fabulous dogs and veal-cutlets as a monstrous invention. However, I temporized with myself, of course--for, was I not wavering between right and wrong, when the thing is always done?--and resolved to make a full disclosure if I should see any such new occasion as a new chance of helping in the discovery of the assailant. The Constables and the Bow Street men from London--for, this happened in the days of the extinct red-waistcoated police--were about the house for a week or two, and did pretty much what I have heard and read of like authorities doing in other such cases. They took up several obviously wrong people, and they ran their heads very hard against wrong ideas, and persisted in trying to fit the circumstances to the ideas, instead of trying to extract ideas from the circumstances. Also, they stood about the door of the Jolly Bargemen, with knowing and reserved looks that filled the whole neighborhood with admiration; and they had a mysterious manner of taking their drink, that was almost as good as taking the culprit. But not quite, for they never did it. Long after these constitutional powers had dispersed, my sister lay very ill in bed. Her sight was disturbed, so that she saw objects multiplied, and grasped at visionary teacups and wineglasses instead of the realities; her hearing was greatly impaired; her memory also; and her speech was unintelligible. When, at last, she came round so far as to be helped downstairs, it was still necessary to keep my slate always by her, that she might indicate in writing what she could not indicate in speech. As she was (very bad handwriting apart) a more than indifferent speller, and as Joe was a more than indifferent reader, extraordinary complications arose between them which I was always called in to solve. The administration of mutton instead of medicine, the substitution of Tea for Joe, and the baker for bacon, were among the mildest of my own mistakes. However, her temper was greatly improved, and she was patient. A tremulous uncertainty of the action of all her limbs soon became a part of her regular state, and afterwards, at intervals of two or three months, she would often put her hands to her head, and would then remain for about a week at a time in some gloomy aberration of mind. We were at a loss to find a suitable attendant for her, until a circumstance happened conveniently to relieve us. Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt conquered a confirmed habit of living into which she had fallen, and Biddy became a part of our establishment. It may have been about a month after my sister's reappearance in the kitchen, when Biddy came to us with a small speckled box containing the whole of her worldly effects, and became a blessing to the household. Above all, she was a blessing to Joe, for the dear old fellow was sadly cut up by the constant contemplation of the wreck of his wife, and had been accustomed, while attending on her of an evening, to turn to me every now and then and say, with his blue eyes moistened, "Such a fine figure of a woman as she once were, Pip!" Biddy instantly taking the cleverest charge of her as though she had studied her from infancy; Joe became able in some sort to appreciate the greater quiet of his life, and to get down to the Jolly Bargemen now and then for a change that did him good. It was characteristic of the police people that they had all more or less suspected poor Joe (though he never knew it), and that they had to a man concurred in regarding him as one of the deepest spirits they had ever encountered. Biddy's first triumph in her new office, was to solve a difficulty that had completely vanquished me. I had tried hard at it, but had made nothing of it. Thus it was:-- Again and again and again, my sister had traced upon the slate, a character that looked like a curious T, and then with the utmost eagerness had called our attention to it as something she particularly wanted. I had in vain tried everything producible that began with a T, from tar to toast and tub. At length it had come into my head that the sign looked like a hammer, and on my lustily calling that word in my sister's ear, she had begun to hammer on the table and had expressed a qualified assent. Thereupon, I had brought in all our hammers, one after another, but without avail. Then I bethought me of a crutch, the shape being much the same, and I borrowed one in the village, and displayed it to my sister with considerable confidence. But she shook her head to that extent when she was shown it, that we were terrified lest in her weak and shattered state she should dislocate her neck. When my sister found that Biddy was very quick to understand her, this mysterious sign reappeared on the slate. Biddy looked thoughtfully at it, heard my explanation, looked thoughtfully at my sister, looked thoughtfully at Joe (who was always represented on the slate by his initial letter), and ran into the forge, followed by Joe and me. "Why, of course!" cried Biddy, with an exultant face. "Don't you see? It's him!" Orlick, without a doubt! She had lost his name, and could only signify him by his hammer. We told him why we wanted him to come into the kitchen, and he slowly laid down his hammer, wiped his brow with his arm, took another wipe at it with his apron, and came slouching out, with a curious loose vagabond bend in the knees that strongly distinguished him. I confess that I expected to see my sister denounce him, and that I was disappointed by the different result. She manifested the greatest anxiety to be on good terms with him, was evidently much pleased by his being at length produced, and motioned that she would have him given something to drink. She watched his countenance as if she were particularly wishful to be assured that he took kindly to his reception, she showed every possible desire to conciliate him, and there was an air of humble propitiation in all she did, such as I have seen pervade the bearing of a child towards a hard master. After that day, a day rarely passed without her drawing the hammer on her slate, and without Orlick's slouching in and standing doggedly before her, as if he knew no more than I did what to make of it. Chapter XVII I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it. So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home. Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful,--she was common, and could not be like Estella,--but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good. It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at--writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem--and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down. "Biddy," said I, "how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever." "What is it that I manage? I don't know," returned Biddy, smiling. She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising. "How do you manage, Biddy," said I, "to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?" I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket-money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price. "I might as well ask you," said Biddy, "how you manage?" "No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, any one can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy." "I suppose I must catch it like a cough," said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing. Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better. "You are one of those, Biddy," said I, "who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!" Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. "I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?" said she, as she sewed. "Biddy!" I exclaimed, in amazement. "Why, you are crying!" "No I am not," said Biddy, looking up and laughing. "What put that in your head?" What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence. "Yes, Biddy," I observed, when I had done turning it over, "you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen." "Ah, poor thing!" replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; "that's sadly true!" "Well!" said I, "we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat." My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summer-time, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the river-side and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence. "Biddy," said I, after binding her to secrecy, "I want to be a gentleman." "O, I wouldn't, if I was you!" she returned. "I don't think it would answer." "Biddy," said I, with some severity, "I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman." "You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?" "Biddy," I exclaimed, impatiently, "I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd." "Was I absurd?" said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; "I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable." "Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable--or anything but miserable--there, Biddy!--unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now." "That's a pity!" said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air. Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped. "If I could have settled down," I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall,--"if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?" Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, "Yes; I am not over-particular." It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well. "Instead of that," said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, "see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and--what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!" Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships. "It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say," she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. "Who said it?" I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, "The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account." Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it. "Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?" Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause. "I don't know," I moodily answered. "Because, if it is to spite her," Biddy pursued, "I should think--but you know best--that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think--but you know best--she was not worth gaining over." Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day? "It may be all quite true," said I to Biddy, "but I admire her dreadfully." In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot. Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little,--exactly as I had done in the brewery yard,--and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which. "I am glad of one thing," said Biddy, "and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now." So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, "Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" "Biddy," I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, "I shall always tell you everything." "Till you're a gentleman," said Biddy. "You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know,--as I told you at home the other night." "Ah!" said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, "shall we walk a little farther, or go home?" I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candle-light in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, "Pip, what a fool you are!" We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy to-day and somebody else to-morrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two? "Biddy," said I, when we were walking homeward, "I wish you could put me right." "I wish I could!" said Biddy. "If I could only get myself to fall in love with you,--you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?" "Oh dear, not at all!" said Biddy. "Don't mind me." "If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me." "But you never will, you see," said Biddy. It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point. When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick. "Halloa!" he growled, "where are you two going?" "Where should we be going, but home?" "Well, then," said he, "I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!" This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook. Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, "Don't let him come; I don't like him." As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance. Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him. "Oh!" she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, "because I--I am afraid he likes me." "Did he ever tell you he liked you?" I asked indignantly. "No," said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, "he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye." However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself. "But it makes no difference to you, you know," said Biddy, calmly. "No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it." "Nor I neither," said Biddy. "Though that makes no difference to you." "Exactly," said I; "but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent." I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter. And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy,--when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out. If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out,

winter

How many times the word 'winter' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

rochelle

How many times the word 'rochelle' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

mountains

How many times the word 'mountains' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

invented

How many times the word 'invented' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

offended

How many times the word 'offended' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

campaign

How many times the word 'campaign' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

safe

How many times the word 'safe' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

enemy

How many times the word 'enemy' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

resolved

How many times the word 'resolved' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

three

How many times the word 'three' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

received

How many times the word 'received' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

observed

How many times the word 'observed' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

whom

How many times the word 'whom' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

recently

How many times the word 'recently' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

solicitation

How many times the word 'solicitation' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

results

How many times the word 'results' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

tobacco

How many times the word 'tobacco' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

kick

How many times the word 'kick' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

prisoners

How many times the word 'prisoners' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

considerable

How many times the word 'considerable' appears in the text?

was either turned in, as they call it, or employed on the duty of the watch, the captain and the mate of the prize went on board, and having faithfully discovered the money, which lay in a place made on purpose to conceal it, the captain resolved to let it lie till they arrived, and then he conveyed it on shore for his own use; so that the owners, nor the seamen, ever came to any share of it, which, by the way, was a fraud in the captain. But the mate paid his ransom by the discovery, and the captain gave him his liberty very punctually, as he had promised, and two hundred pieces of eight to carry him to England and to make good his losses. When he had made this prize, the captain thought of nothing more than how to get safe to France with her, for she was a ship sufficient to enrich all his men and his owners also. The account of her cargo, by the captain's books, of which I took a copy, was in general: 260 hogsheads of sugar. 187 smaller casks of sugar. 176 barrels of indigo. 28 casks of pimento. 42 bags of cotton wool. 80 cwt. of elephants' teeth. 60 small casks of rum. 18,000 pieces of eight, besides the six thousand concealed. Several parcels of drugs, tortoise-shell, sweetmeats, called succades, chocolate, lime juice, and other things of considerable value. This was a terrible loss among the English merchants, and a noble booty for the rogues that took it; but as it was in open war and by fair fighting, as they call it, there was no objection to be made against them, and, to give them their due, they fought bravely for it. The captain was not so bold as to meeting the English men-of-war before, but he was as wary now; for, having a prize of such value in his hands, he was resolved not to lose her again, if he could help it. So he stood away to the southward, and that so far that I once thought he was resolved to go into the Straits, and home by Marseilles. But having sailed to the latitude of 45 degrees 3 quarters, or thereabouts, he steered away east, into the bottom of the Bay of Biscay, and carried us all into the river of Bordeaux, where, on notice of his arrival with such a prize, his owners or principals came overland to see him, and where they consulted what to do with her. The money they secured, to be sure, and some of the cargo; but the ships sailed afterwards along the coast to St. Malo, taking the opportunity of some French men-of-war which were cruising on the coast to be their convoy as far as Ushant. Here the captain rewarded and dismissed the English mate, as I have said, who got a passage from thence to Dieppe by sea, and after that into England, by the help of a passport, through Flanders to Ostend. The captain, it seems, the more willingly shipped him off that he might not discover to others what he had discovered to him. I was now at Bordeaux, in France, and the captain asked me one morning what I intended to do. I did not understand him at first, but he soon gave me to understand that I was now either to be delivered up to the state as an English prisoner, and so be carried to Dinan, in Brittany, or to find means to have myself exchanged, or to pay my ransom, and this ransom he told me at first was three hundred crowns. I knew not what to do, but desired he would give me time to write to England to my friends; for that I had a cargo of goods sent to them by me from Virginia, but I did not know but it might have fallen into such hands as his were, and if it was, I knew not what would be my fate. He readily granted that; so I wrote by the post, and had the satisfaction, in answer to it, to hear that the ship I was taken in had been retaken, and carried into Portsmouth; which I doubted would have made my new master more strict, and perhaps insolent; but he said nothing of it to me, nor I to him, though, as I afterwards understood, he had advice of it before. However, this was a help to me, and served to more than pay my ransom to the captain. And my correspondent in London, hearing of my being alive and at Bordeaux, immediately sent me a letter of credit upon an English merchant at Bordeaux for whatever I might have occasion for. As soon as I received this I went to the merchant, who honoured the letter of credit, and told me I should have what money I pleased. But as I, who was before a mere stranger in the place and knew not what course to take, had now, as it were, a friend to communicate my affairs to and consult with, as soon as I told him my case, "Hold," says he; "if that be your case, I may perhaps find a way to get you off without a ransom." There was, it seems, a ship bound home to France from Martinico, taken off Cape Finisterre by an English man-of-war, and a merchant of Rochelle, being a passenger, was taken on board, and brought into Plymouth. This man had made great solicitation by his friends to be exchanged, pleading poverty, and that he was unable to pay any ransom. My friend told me something of it, but not much, only bade me not be too forward to pay any money to the captain, but pretend I could not hear from England. This I did till the captain appeared impatient. After some time the captain told me I had used him ill; that I had made him expect a ransom, and he had treated me courteously and been at expense to subsist me, and that I held him in suspense, but that, in short, if I did not procure the money, he would send me to Dinan in ten days, to lie there as the king's prisoner till I should be exchanged. My merchant gave me my cue, and by his direction I answered I was very sensible of his civility, and sorry he should lose what expenses he had been at, but that I found my friends forgot me, and what to do I did not know, and that, rather than impose upon him, I must submit to go to Dinan, or where he thought fit to send me; but that if ever I obtained my liberty, and came into England, I would not fail to reimburse him what expense he had been at for my subsistence; and so, in short, made my case very bad in all my discourse. He shook his head and said little, but the next day entered me in the list of English prisoners to be at the king's charge, as appointed by the intendant of the place, and to be sent away into Brittany. I was then out of the captain's power, and immediately the merchant, with two others who were friends to the merchant prisoner at Plymouth, went to the intendant and gained an order for the exchange, and my friend giving security for my being forthcoming, in case the other was not delivered, I had my liberty immediately, and went home with him to his house. Thus we bilked the captain of his ransom money. But, however, my friend went to him, and letting him know that I was exchanged by the governor's order, paid him whatever he could say he was in disburse on my account; and it was not then in the captain's power to object, or to claim anything for a ransom. I got passage from hence to Dunkirk on board a French vessel, and having a certificate of an exchanged prisoner from the intendent at Bordeaux, I had a passport given me to go into the Spanish Netherlands, and so whither I pleased. Accordingly I came to Ghent, in April----, just as the armies were going to take the field. I had no dislike to the business of the army, but I thought I was a little above it now, and had other things to look to; for that, in my opinion, nobody went into the field but those that could not live at home. And yet I resolved to see the manner of it a little too, so, having made an acquaintance with an English officer quartered at Ghent, I told him my intention, and he invited me to go with him, and offered me his protection as a volunteer, that I should quarter with him in his tent, and live as I would, and either carry arms or not, as I saw occasion. The campaign was none of the hardest that had been, or was like to be; so that I had the diversion of seeing the service, as it was proper to call it, without much hazard. Indeed I did not see any considerable action, for there was not much fighting that campaign. As to the merit of the cause on either side, I knew nothing of it, nor had I suffered any of the disputes about it to enter into my thoughts. The Prince of Orange had been made king of England, and the English troops were all on his side; and I heard a great deal of swearing and damning for King William among the soldiers. But as for fighting, I observed the French beat them several times, and particularly the regiment my friend belonged to was surrounded in a village where they were posted, I knew not upon what occasion, and all taken prisoners. But by great good hap, I, being not in service, and so not in command, was strolled away that day to see the country about; for it was my delight to see the strong towns, and observe the beauty of their fortifications; and while I diverted myself thus, I had the happy deliverance of not being taken by the French for that time. When I came back I found the enemy possessed of the town, but as I was no soldier they did me no harm, and having my French passport in my pocket, they gave me leave to go to Nieuport, where I took the packet-boat and came over to England, landing at Deal instead of Dover, the weather forcing us into the Downs; and thus my short campaign ended, and this was my second essay at the trade of soldiering. When I came to London I was very well received by my friend, to whom I had consigned my effects, and I found myself in very good circumstances; for all my goods, which, as above, by several ships, I had consigned to him, came safe to hand; and my overseers that I had left behind had shipped at several times four hundred hogsheads of tobacco to my correspondent in my absence, being the product of my plantation, or part of it, for the time of my being abroad; so that I had above 1000 in my factor's hands, two hundred hogsheads of tobacco besides left in hand, not sold. I had nothing to do now but entirely to conceal myself from all that had any knowledge of me before. And this was the easiest thing in the world to do; for I was grown out of everybody's knowledge, and most of those I had known were grown out of mine. My captain, who went with me, or, rather, who carried me away, I found, by inquiring at the proper place, had been rambling about the world, came to London, fell into his own trade, which he could not forbear, and growing an eminent highwayman, had made his exit at the gallows, after a life of fourteen years' most exquisite and successful rogueries, the particulars of which would make, as I observed, an admirable history. My other brother Jacque, who I called major, followed the like wicked trade, but was a man of more gallantry and generosity; and having committed innumerable depredations upon mankind, yet had always so much dexterity as to bring himself off, till at length he was laid fast in Newgate, and loaded with irons, and would certainly have gone the same way as the captain, but he was so dexterous a rogue that no gaol, no fetters, would hold him; and he, with two more, found means to knock off their irons, worked their way through the wall of the prison, and let themselves down on the outside in the night. So escaping, they found means to get into France, where he followed the same trade, and with so much success that he grew famous by the name of Anthony, and had the honour, with three of his comrades, whom he had taught the English way of robbing generously, as they called it, without murdering or wounding, or ill-using those they robbed;--I say, he had the honour to be broke upon the wheel at the Greve in Paris. All these things I found means to be fully informed of, and to have a long account of the particulars of their conduct from some of their comrades who had the good fortune to escape, and who I got the knowledge of without letting them so much as guess at who I was or upon what account I inquired. I was now at the height of my good fortune. Indeed I was in very good circumstances, and being of a frugal temper from the beginning, I saved things together as they came, and yet lived very well too. Particularly I had the reputation of a very considerable merchant, and one that came over vastly rich from Virginia; and as I frequently bought supplies for my several families and plantations there as they wrote to me for them, so I passed, I say, for a great merchant. I lived single, indeed, and in lodgings, but I began to be very well known, and though I had subscribed my name only "Jack" to my particular correspondent, yet the French, among whom I lived near a year, as I have said, not understanding what Jack meant, called me Monsieur Jacques and Colonel Jacques, and so gradually Colonel Jacque. So I was called in the certificate of exchanging me with the other prisoner, so that I went so also into Flanders; upon which, and seeing my certificate of exchange, as above, I was called Colonel Jacques in England by my friend who I called correspondent. And thus I passed for a foreigner and a Frenchman, and I was infinitely fond of having everybody take me for a Frenchman; and as I spoke French very well, having learned it by continuing so long among them, so I went constantly to the French church in London, and spoke French upon all occasions as much as I could; and, to complete the appearance of it, I got me a French servant to do my business--I mean as to my merchandise, which only consisted in receiving and disposing of tobacco, of which I had about five hundred to six hundred hogsheads a year from my own plantations, and in supplying my people with necessaries as they wanted them. In this private condition I continued about two years more, when the devil, owing me a spleen ever since I refused being a thief, paid me home, with my interest, by laying a snare in my way which had almost ruined me. There dwelt a lady in the house opposite to the house I lodged in, who made an extraordinary figure indeed. She went very well dressed, and was a most beautiful person. She was well-bred, sung admirably fine, and sometimes I could hear her very distinctly, the houses being over against one another, in a narrow court, not much unlike Three King Court in Lombard Street. This lady put herself so often in my way that I could not in good manners forbear taking notice of her, and giving her the ceremony of my hat when I saw her at her window, or at the door, or when I passed her in the court; so that we became almost acquainted at a distance. Sometimes she also visited at the house I lodged at, and it was generally contrived that I should be introduced when she came, and thus by degrees we became more intimately acquainted, and often conversed together in the family, but always in public, at least for a great while. I was a mere boy in the affair of love, and knew the least of what belonged to a woman of any man in Europe of my age. The thoughts of a wife, much less of a mistress, had never so much as taken the least hold of my head, and I had been till now as perfectly unacquainted with the sex, and as unconcerned about them, as I was when I was ten years old, and lay in a heap of ashes at the glass-house. But I know not by what witchcraft in the conversation of this woman, and her singling me out upon several occasions, I began to be ensnared, I knew not how, or to what end; and was on a sudden so embarrassed in my thoughts about her that, like a charm, she had me always in her circle. If she had not been one of the subtlest women on earth, she could never have brought me to have given myself the least trouble about her, but I was drawn in by the magic of a genius capable to deceive a more wary capacity than mine, and it was impossible to resist her. She attacked me without ceasing, with the fineness of her conduct, and with arts which were impossible to be ineffectual. She was ever, as it were, in my view, often in my company, and yet kept herself so on the reserve, so surrounded continually with obstructions, that for several months after she could perceive I sought an opportunity to speak to her, she rendered it impossible; nor could I ever break in upon her, she kept her guard so well. This rigid behaviour was the greatest mystery that could be, considering, at the same time, that she never declined my seeing her or conversing with me in public. But she held it on; she took care never to sit next me, that I might slip no paper into her hand or speak softly to her; she kept somebody or other always between, that I could never come up to her; and thus, as if she was resolved really to have nothing to do with me, she held me at the bay several months. All this while nothing was more certain than that she intended to have me, if she could catch; and it was indeed a kind of a catch, for she managed all by art, and drew me in with the most resolute backwardness, that it was almost impossible not to be deceived by it. On the other hand, she did not appear to be a woman despicable, neither was she poor, or in a condition that should require so much art to draw any man in; but the cheat was really on my side; for she was unhappily told that I was vastly rich, a great merchant, and that she would live like a queen; which I was not at all instrumental in putting upon her, neither did I know that she went upon that motive. She was too cunning to let me perceive how easy she was to be had; on the contrary, she run all the hazards of bringing me to neglect her entirely that one would think any woman in the world could do. And I have wondered often since how that it was possible it should fail of making me perfectly averse to her; for as I had a perfect indifferency for the whole sex, and never till then entertained any notion of them, they were no more to me than a picture hanging up against a wall. As we conversed freely together in public, so she took a great many occasions to rally the men, and the weakness they were guilty of in letting the women insult them as they did. She thought if the men had not been fools, marriage had been only treaties of peace between two neighbours, or alliances offensive or defensive, which must necessarily have been carried on sometimes by interviews and personal treaties, but oftener by ambassadors, agents, and emissaries on both sides; but that the women had outwitted us, and brought us upon our knees, and made us whine after them, and lower ourselves, so as we could never pretend to gain our equality again. I told her I thought it was a decency to the ladies to give them the advantage of denying a little, that they might be courted, and that I should not like a woman the worse for denying me. "I expect it, madam," says I, "when I wait on you to-morrow;" intimating that I intended it. "You shan't be deceived, sir," says she, "for I'll deny now, before you ask me the question." I was dashed so effectually with so malicious, so devilish an answer that I returned with a little sullenness, "I shan't trespass upon you yet, madam; and I shall be very careful not to offend you when I do." "It is the greatest token of your respect, sir," says she, "that you are able to bestow upon me, and the most agreeable too, except one, which I will not be out of hopes of obtaining of you in a little time." "What is in my power to oblige you in, madam," said I, "you may command me in at any time, especially the way we are talking of." This I spoke still with a resentment very sincere. "It is only, sir, that you would promise to hate me with as much sincerity as I will endeavour to make you a suitable return." "I granted that request, madam, seven years before you asked it," said I, "for I heartily hated the whole sex, and scarce know how I came to abate that good disposition in compliment to your conversation; but I assure you that abatement is so little that it does no injury to your proposal." "There's some mystery in that indeed, sir," said she, "for I desire to assist your aversion to women in a more particular manner, and hoped it should never abate under my management." We said a thousand ill-natured things after this, but she outdid me, for she had such a stock of bitterness upon her tongue as no woman ever went beyond her, and yet all this while she was the pleasantest and most obliging creature in every part of our conversation that could possibly be, and meant not one word of what she said; no, not a word. But I must confess it no way answered her end, for it really cooled all my thoughts of her, and I, that had lived in so perfect an indifferency to the sex all my days, was easily returned to that condition again, and began to grow very cold and negligent in my usual respects to her upon all occasions. She soon found she had gone too far with me, and, in short, that she was extremely out in her politics; that she had to do with one that was not listed yet among the whining sort of lovers, and knew not what it was to adore a mistress in order to abuse her; and that it was not with me as it was with the usual sort of men in love, that are warmed by the cold, and rise in their passions as the ladies fall in their returns. On the contrary, she found that it was quite altered. I was civil to her, as before, but not so forward. When I saw her at her chamber-window, I did not throw mine open, as I usually had done, to talk with her. When she sung in the parlour, where I could easily hear it, I did not listen. When she visited at the house where I lodged, I did not always come down; or if I did, I had business which obliged me to go abroad; and yet all this while, when I did come into her company, I was as intimate as ever. I could easily see that this madded her to the heart, and that she was perplexed to the last degree, for she found that she had all her game to play over again; that so absolute a reservedness, even to rudeness and ill manners, was a little too much; but she was a mere posture-mistress in love, and could put herself into what shapes she pleased. She was too wise to show a fondness or forwardness that looked like kindness. She knew that was the meanest and last step a woman can take, and lays her under the foot of the man she pretends to. Fondness is not the last favour indeed, but it is the last favour but one that a woman can grant, and lays her almost as low; I mean, it lays her at the mercy of the man she shows it to; but she was not come to that neither. This chameleon put on another colour, turned, on a sudden, the gravest, soberest, majestic madam, so that any one would have thought she was advanced in age in one week from two-and-twenty to fifty, and this she carried on with so much government of herself that it did not in the least look like art; but if it was a representation of nature only, it was so like nature itself that nobody living can be able to distinguish. She sung very often in her parlour, as well by herself as with two young ladies who came often to see her. I could see by their books, and her guitar in her hand, that she was singing; but she never opened the window, as she was wont to do. Upon my coming to my window, she kept her own always shut; or if it was open, she would be sitting at work, and not look up, it may be, once in half-an-hour. If she saw me by accident all this while, she would smile, and speak as cheerfully as ever; but it was but a word or two, and so make her honours and be gone; so that, in a word, we conversed just as we did after I had been there a week. She tired me quite out at this work; for though I began the strangeness, indeed, yet I did not design the carrying it on so far. But she held it to the last, just in the same manner as she began it. She came to the house where I lodged as usual, and we were often together, supped together, played at cards together, danced together; for in France I accomplished myself with everything that was needful to make me what I believed myself to be even from a boy--I mean a gentleman. I say, we conversed together, as above, but she was so perfectly another thing to what she used to be in every part of her conversation that it presently occurred to me that her former behaviour was a kind of a rant or fit; that either it was the effect of some extraordinary levity that had come upon her, or that it was done to mimic the coquets of the town, believing it might take with me, who she thought was a Frenchman, and that it was what I loved. But her new gravity was her real natural temper, and indeed it became her so much better, or, as I should say, she acted it so well, that it really brought me back to have, not as much only, but more mind to her than ever I had before. However, it was a great while before I discovered myself, and I stayed indeed to find out, if possible, whether this change was real or counterfeit; for I could not easily believe it was possible the gay humour she used to appear in could be a counterfeit. It was not, therefore, till a year and almost a quarter that I came to any resolution in my thoughts about her, when, on a mere accident, we came to a little conversation together. She came to visit at our house as usual, and it happened all the ladies were gone abroad; but, as it fell out, I was in the passage or entry of the house, going towards the stairs, when she knocked at the door; so, stepping back, I opened the door, and she, without any ceremony, came in, and ran forward into the parlour, supposing the women had been there. I went in after her, as I could do no less, because she did not know that the family was abroad. Upon my coming in she asked for the ladies. I told her I hoped she came to visit me now, for that the ladies were all gone abroad. "Are they?" said she, as if surprised--though I understood afterwards she knew it before, as also that I was at home--and then rises up to be gone. "No, madam," said I, "pray do not go; when ladies come to visit me, I do not use to tire them of my company so soon." "That's as ill-natured," says she, "as you could possibly talk.

latour

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was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

vanished

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was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

ought

How many times the word 'ought' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

part

How many times the word 'part' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

prompted

How many times the word 'prompted' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

ports

How many times the word 'ports' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

cold

How many times the word 'cold' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

days

How many times the word 'days' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

horse

How many times the word 'horse' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

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was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

affectionately

How many times the word 'affectionately' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

various

How many times the word 'various' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

god

How many times the word 'god' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

regard

How many times the word 'regard' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

undeniable

How many times the word 'undeniable' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

january

How many times the word 'january' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

jennings

How many times the word 'jennings' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

visitor

How many times the word 'visitor' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

feigning

How many times the word 'feigning' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

pan

How many times the word 'pan' appears in the text?

was feigning indifference, in order to conceal her chagrin, but from experience of Kitty's nature she knew that her friend was incapable of acting a sustained part, and that if she appeared to enjoy balls and flirtations, it was because they had for her as much zest as ever. Georgiana might wonder, but she had no inclination to blame Kitty for any sign of inconsistency. It was undoubtedly much better for Kitty to get over her infatuation for William Price, if she could succeed in doing so; but the consequences to Georgiana were far more grave, and she suffered the more for realizing that Kitty had not, after all, so greatly valued the thing she had sought after, the object which had become more and more precious to Georgiana than anything in the world. Her effort to defend Kitty to William, her refusal to accept his devotion for herself--all had been wasted, fruitless, unnecessary! Not that she would for one moment desire to withdraw the act of loyalty towards her friend; but with heart-breaking regrets did she review the whole sequence of events, which had so cruelly and inevitably separated William Price and herself. Was it, she thought, a just punishment for one who had made two such grievous mistakes previously that she should now be accorded, too late, a glimpse of a happiness that would have transformed her whole life? Bingley's casual mention of his movements had reminded her forcibly how improbable it was that they should ever meet again. She had borne up bravely until then, but that night, when alone, she could not help giving way to an access of grief severer than any she had known before, and only a dread of arousing comment enabled her to assume an air of tolerable serenity when she appeared in the morning. It happened that Jane, while admiring a new dress which Georgiana was wearing, was struck with the want of animation in the young girl's face, and her usual kindness prompted her to inquire solicitously how she did. Georgiana would confess to no ailment but a slight cold, which she had had for a week and been unable to throw off, and tried to make light of it when Jane appealed to Elizabeth to suggest what might be done to re-establish her health. Elizabeth felt a real concern as she looked closely at her young sister, and reproached herself for having neglected to give her proper care. "No, no, indeed, Elizabeth, it is not so," protested Georgiana. "I am perfectly well. A cold always makes one feel stupid, and this mild damp weather is disagreeable, coming after those early frosts." "Come and stay with us for two or three weeks," said Jane affectionately. "The change will do you good, and Bingley and I shall be happy to have you; your last visit was an unreasonably short one." Georgiana gratefully but decidedly declined the offer, pleading various excuses, but privately feeling that she would rather not be with Kitty again just yet, amid scenes connected inseparably with William Price's presence. "I think she ought to have a change, nevertheless," said Elizabeth, "and it is too long to wait till we go to Bath in April. Would you not really care to go to Desborough for a little, Georgiana, and see if it does you good?" Georgiana faltered out something of reluctance, and Jane, smiling kindly at her, went away to leave the sisters to discuss it together. Elizabeth drew the young girl to her, and tenderly asked if there was anything the matter, in which her help or advice would be acceptable, and Georgiana, after a few moments' silent struggle, recovered the self-command which the proffer of sympathy had threatened to disturb, and replied that she was sure she would be quite well directly, and would rather not go away from home until she went with the others. "You are sure there is nowhere you would like to go, if not Desborough?" asked Elizabeth, pondering. "The Hursts would be delighted, I know, but you have been there lately; what a pity Mrs. Annesley has gone abroad." Georgiana only shook her head at these suggestions, and suddenly Elizabeth exclaimed: "I have thought of something--Mrs. Wentworth's invitation! You remember that she asked you, in the letter I had from her with reference to her father and Miss Crawford. You thought at the time that you might like to accept it some day." The idea seemed to interest Georgiana more than the others. She raised her head from Elizabeth's shoulder, and said: "I remember; it was a very kind message. The Wentworths live at Winchester, do they not?" "Yes, and Anne Wentworth is so good-hearted, so thoroughly sincere, that I know she would like to be taken at her word, and to have you propose yourself as a visitor. What do you think of it, Georgiana? I think you might be very happy with such kind people, and the change of air and surroundings would be complete. It seems a very long way off, I know, but you could be taken to London in the carriage, with the two servants, as last year; and Captain Wentworth would doubtless be able to meet you there, for he makes that journey constantly. Your brother and I would come and fetch you any time, after Miss Crawford goes, as soon as you wish to come away." Elizabeth rose and went to her writing-table, to find Mrs. Wentworth's letter, and to show Georgiana the message once more. The cordiality which it expressed could not be doubted, and Georgiana began to feel that if she could ever find pleasure in anything again, it might be in the quiet companionship of such friends as Captain and Mrs. Wentworth. She had been greatly attracted by Mrs. Wentworth, and she had sufficient good sense to know that it would be advantageous to her to have an entire change of environment, to be away for a time from Pemberley, and its associations. It would revive her courage, and help her to appreciate the many blessings that life still held for her. Georgiana was not too young not to believe that her troubles were past mending, but she was also too reasonable deliberately to nurse her unhappiness. She accordingly allowed Elizabeth to write and propose the scheme, and had grown so much accustomed to the idea as to be pleased when an answer arrived in the form of a joint letter from the Wentworths, warmly welcoming her to join their house, with every intimation of the delight it would afford them, and suggesting the last week in January as the date for her journey to London, where her host would meet her, and convey her straight to Winchester, a distance of sixty-five miles. The arrangement was generally approved. Darcy and Elizabeth regretted losing their sister, even for a time; but they hoped it would be beneficial to her, and they could perceive that it fell in with her inclinations. There was no lack of escort, for Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, who were now talking of going in earnest, were anxious to alter their plans and travel to Bath round by London, for the pleasure of her company; but Darcy would not permit this, as he had resolved on taking his sister himself, and Elizabeth induced them to remain with her until his return. Chapter XXIV January was passing. The weather was remarkably mild and open for the time of year, and the hunting men were rejoicing in their opportunities. The ladies were able to take their daily walks and drives, in which Mrs. Ferrars's sister, Mrs. Brandon, a very lovely and amiable woman, who had come to watch over her sister's convalescence, was often invited to join them. Mrs. Jennings had returned to London earlier in the month, sorely disappointed, after such a promising beginning, at not having seen the successful termination of even one love-affair during her stay. None of the family at Pemberley had ever understood what part she played in the catastrophe of November, except that she had shared in the general error made by Kitty's friends, nor were they aware of the destiny she had marked out for Georgiana; but Elinor, when she realized that something had gone seriously wrong in consequence of the ball, had no difficulty in persuading the really good-natured old lady to confine her lamentations, conjectures, and comments to the ears of the Rectory inhabitants only. This end was the more easily attained since, after Kitty's departure, there was no one to keep her supplied with information. When, however, that young lady returned in apparently good spirits, Mrs. Jennings was immeasurably delighted, and quite entered into her willingness to talk of Cathcart and Macdonald, and, indeed, anyone and anything but William Price, and Mrs. Jennings had only to hear that Mr. Bertram was coming to stay at Desborough again, and not at Pemberley, to be ready to console Kitty with a number of entirely new and revised prognostications as to the object of his visit. The party at Pemberley were sitting together one evening after dinner. It was about eight o'clock, and they had all settled to their customary occupations; Darcy and his wife were reading, Mrs. Grant working and Georgiana was at the instrument, playing short snatches of music while Mary Crawford sat close beside her, and asked for one and another of her favourite pieces. Peace and tranquility reigned, and seemed as little likely to be interrupted as on many previous evenings that had been similarly spent. The sudden sound of carriage wheels, therefore, and the rapid trot of horses, startled everyone, and alarmed one at least, for Elizabeth's first apprehension was that Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned unexpectedly. Georgiana ceased playing, and all listened anxiously, but the suspense lasted for the shortest possible time required by a visitor to get into the house, and on the door being flung open, Darcy had scarcely risen from his chair, before Tom Bertram followed his name into the room with quick steps. Tom Bertram had acted on many stages, but in none of the parts he had ever played had he made so sensational an entrance. The amazement of the inmates of the room on beholding him, the dismay of Mrs. Grant and her sister, his own disconcerted surprise at seeing who were Mrs. Darcy's guests, all tended to make the first minute one of extreme embarrassment, and it was only the knowledge of his urgency of his errand that enabled him to recover himself sooner than any of the others. Advancing to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, he greeted them both, bowed to Mrs. Grant, and to the corner of the room where Mary was shrinking out of sight behind Georgiana, and at once began speaking very quickly to the master of the house. "Mr. Darcy, I fear I have startled, I hope not frightened, you all by intruding at this late hour; but when you know how pressing is the need, you will dispense with apologies. I grieve very much to say to say I am the bearer of bad news, but believing that you ought to know, I constituted myself the messenger. Your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, has met with an accident whilst out hunting to-day. I regret exceedingly to tell you, but his state is considered serious, and his friends thought it would be advisable for you to come." "Fitzwilliam? Fitzwilliam hurt! Good God, what is this?" exclaimed Darcy, completely roused out of his usual calm. "How did it happen? Tell us all about it. I will go to him instantly" (ringing the bell). "In God's name, Bertram, say he is still living? Where is he? How long will it take to get to him?" Elizabeth, though dreadfully shocked and distressed, had the wisdom to send another servant for refreshments for Mr. Bertram, while Darcy ordered his own things to be packed and his travelling carriage be brought round, and in the slight bustle caused by these arrangements, Mrs. Grant and Georgiana were able, almost unobserved, to attend to Mary, who had not actually fainted, but had sunk down on a low couch, scarcely knowing what she did. Her sister and Georgiana supported her in between them, placed her in a more easy position, rubbed her hands and shielded her from the light; and Mary, with a very great effort, collected herself sufficiently to listen to the details which Mr. Bertram was hurriedly giving in answer to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy's inquiries. It appeared that Colonel Fitzwilliam had only just returned from London, and this was his first day out for some time. The fox had got well away, and the hunt were in the midst of a fine run, when the Colonel's horse came down with him at a blind fence. Bertram paused here to give more particulars than his impatient hearers desired, about the height and width of the fence, and the exact manner in which the horse had approached it, for it seemed that he himself had been riding near at the time, and had witnessed the accident. The Colonel was pinned under the animal, and was taken out unconscious, with a broken leg, and, it was feared, some grave injury to the spine. Fortunately, the house of the friend with whom he was staying was not far off, and he was borne thither, and the services of the apothecary were promptly obtained; but the only opinion he could form was very grave, and pending the arrival of a more experienced surgeon, who had been sent for from Leicester, no one could tell what an hour might bring forth. The ladies were sick with horror: Mrs. Grant was weeping silently, and Georgiana, as she held Mary's cold hand, felt that this was indeed the last and crowning sorrow, for poor Cousin Robert to die without knowing the happiness that ought to have been his. "The pulse is so very weak; I think they fear a collapse of the whole system, even if he does recover consciousness," said Bertram, in too low a tone to be heard by those at the other end of the room. "They were trying stimulants of various kinds when I came away." Elizabeth's face was hidden. Darcy was too much overwhelmed to speak for some moments, till with a sudden start of recollection he exclaimed: "And you, Bertram? how came you to be there? and how come you are here now?" Bertram, with a return to something of his nonchalant manner, explained that he, too, had been staying in the same neighbourhood, with a friend, who was, in fact, the master of that pack of hounds, and with whom he often spent a few days in the hunting season, as it was little over twenty miles from his own house, Mansfield Park. "I had been talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam during the morning," he continued, "and helped to carry him back to Ashley's place, and when Ashley said his relations ought to know, I decided at once to come with the news. I only delayed to change my clothes and have the chaise got ready, for I knew time was an object, and I could get over the ground quicker than anyone else they could send." "I am sure we are deeply indebted to you, Bertram," said Darcy, grasping him warmly by the hand, while Elizabeth joined him in expressing the sincerest gratitude. "You could not have done us a greater service, and it is one we shall never forget. It was an impulse of true goodness and unselfishness that prompted you to ride straight to us, disregarding your own fatigue and inconvenience; few men would have done as much." Bertram disclaimed, and as Georgiana came forward to add her thanks to those of the others, he bowed to her with gallantry, assuring her that fatigue was nothing, if he could be of use to friends whom he so greatly esteemed, and he only wished that he could have brought news to relieve anxiety, instead of creating it. By this time word was brought that the more substantial meal which had been ordered for Mr. Bertram was ready in the dining-room, and Darcy escorted him thither, to attend to his wants and to obtain the particulars as to his journey from Leicestershire. The distance was forty-five miles, and Darcy proposed to start within half an hour, and reach his destination some time during the night, but he pressed his visitor to stay at least until the next day, and if he would, to rest himself and his horses. Their peaceful evening had been turned into confusion and wretchedness. The quiet circle in the drawing-room was broken up, and Mrs. Grant, fearing greatly for her sister, was thankful to lead her to her own room, there to recover as best she might from the frightful shock of Tom Bertram's news. Darcy soon went upstairs to prepare for his journey, and his wife busied herself with helping him, and with placing in his luggage any article she could think of that might conduce to the sick man's comfort, while a maze of thoughts occupied her mind, chilling fear, apprehension, and dread of what might be happening to the loved friend at such a distance, and anxiety on account of Miss Crawford, whose trembling and distressed condition had not escaped her. A few minutes later Georgiana came to her door, showing traces of tears, but quite calm, and begging to be made useful. Elizabeth was just then giving some directions to the maid, so Georgiana waited until they were done, and then, coming close to her sister, she said: "Elizabeth, do you think we could do anything for Miss Crawford? I went to wish her good-night, and she tried to smile and say something sympathizing, but could hardly utter the words. I am sure she is terribly concerned about all this. She almost looks like a different person, so pale and stricken. Do you think she can possibly be caring for Cousin Robert all the time, and not know it till now? Oh, dear Elizabeth, is it not dreadful to think it may be too late?" Elizabeth gazed at her sister, listening intently, and pondering all Georgiana said. True, indeed, that it would be a dreadful thing to contemplate, if Mary really loved Fitzwilliam, and the knowledge came too late to do good to either. And even if Mary knew her own heart at last, was it not too late, when pride sealed her lips, and Fitzwilliam was lying near to death, forty miles away, perhaps never more able to see her or hear her? Elizabeth experienced a momentary feeling of despair; the powers ranged against her seemed almost too strong to be attacked; but rallying her forces, and putting in the front of her mind the one hopeful thought that Fitzwilliam might live till Darcy reached him, or longer, she said to Georgiana: "I think I shall try; I will ask her to send him a message, if it is as we think; it will be better than nothing, even if he is only just able to understand it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands in intense eagerness, "do ask her, dear Elizabeth; she will surely tell you, and my brother will tell him. Whatever happens, she will be glad to think she has done it. Do ask her; do not lose a minute; there is so little time." Voices were heard in the corridor; Darcy was speaking to the servants, who were carrying out his luggage. Elizabeth hesitated no longer, pausing only to say: "Dear Georgiana, would you mind going to sit with Mr. Bertram? I am afraid it may be tiresome for you to entertain a stranger just now, but he is alone, and it would be only a kind attention, after what he has done for us," and to receive Georgiana's assent, before going swiftly to Miss Crawford's room. She found that Georgiana's description had been all too accurate. Miss Crawford had not wept, but her expression of hopeless misery sent a pang through Elizabeth's heart. She had sent her sister away, and had been sitting on her bed, too stunned for action, almost for thought, and she made no resistance when Elizabeth placed her on the couch, sat beside her, and taking both her hands, began to plead with her, quickly and simply, without premeditation. "Dear Miss Crawford, I have come to ask you to do something for my poor cousin, something which only you can do. You heard what Mr. Bertram said, of his dangerous state, and it distressed you as much as us, I know. I would not for a moment seek to pry into your inmost feelings, but we are come to matters of life and death, and it is on _his_ account that I do venture to ask you, if you feel that you could listen to him if he were here, then will you send him a word, a message, something to show that you are thinking of him?" Mary replied after a minute or two, in a stifled voice: "I would send him such a message, but do you think he would care to have it?" "I do, indeed, most truly. I understand your hesitation; you think you cannot speak of love to him, when he has not spoken to you; but I would stake my life on his devotion and faithfulness. The words you send him will bring comfort and peace of mind, whatever the issue." Mary shuddered, and withdrew her trembling hands. "Mr. Bertram seems to think he will die." "We cannot tell; he is a strong man and had not had the best advice when Mr. Bertram was there. We can only hope, and my husband is starting almost immediately, and will carry any message you feel able to send, trusting that he will be in time to deliver it." "Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Mary, rising and walking restlessly about the room; "he is so good and generous that if he still cares, he would overlook all, he would pardon the errors and foolishness that have led to this misunderstanding--but the past, Mrs. Darcy, does he know and forgive that? I wish I could tell. Seeing Mr. Bertram brings it all back again--my brother, his sister--the divorce--what Lady Catherine heard, the world believes, you know--and just when one repents it all most, it comes back just like a spectre to haunt one." Elizabeth replied very earnestly: "At such a time as this, it would be cruel to mislead you, and I only say what I sincerely believe, that Colonel Fitzwilliam knows everything to which you refer, and it makes not the smallest difference to him. It would not, you should be aware, to any man whose love was worthy of the name. That should not weigh with you for a moment. The only thing that signifies in the least is whether you can return that love: the only barrier between you is being unable to return it. I would not urge you against your will, or take advantage of a moment of strong emotion; you alone know whether it would make you happier to send a word of hope to him." "Happier? Ah, I do not know," said Mary sorrowfully. "I do not seem able to think of happiness. And yet, I should be glad for him to know, since you think he still cares to know, and it is all I can now do for him. You need not be afraid of my not trusting my feelings, Mrs. Darcy. This has shown me all too late what they really are, though my folly and obstinacy have blinded me all these months." "We will not say too late, dear Miss Crawford," said Elizabeth, going up to where Miss Crawford was standing by the mantelshelf, leaning her head on her arm. "We do not know that it is too late, and I believe that it will be an immense comfort to you to take this one step. Explanations can come after. I am not afraid of Colonel Fitzwilliam being unable to clear away all doubts and fears when he is able to speak for himself again." There was a moment's pause, and Elizabeth continued: "I must not stay now. Mr. Darcy is so impatient to be off, but I will be back to you. Will you tell me what I may say? so little will suffice; or would you rather write it?" Mary shook her head, still keeping her face hidden, and said in a barely audible voice: "Ask Mr. Darcy, if he will be so kind--explain things to him how you like--but say I send Colonel Fitzwilliam my--my love; that I beg his forgiveness; and that I hope--he will soon--be able to come home--to me." Elizabeth just caught the last words, waited to assure herself there was no more, and pressing Mary's hand, went quietly out of the room. Though much moved by their interview, the exigencies of the moment demanded that she should quickly recover her composure, and brace herself for the parting with her husband. There would be time--all too much time--for thought when the moment of action was over; there would be hours of suspense to be borne and another sufferer to console. As she came out upon the gallery, she heard persons talking and moving in the hall below, and distinguished her husband's voice saying: "I ought to be with him soon after one o'clock," words which revived her courage, and she descended to find Darcy, Georgiana and Mr. Bertram standing by the hearth, Darcy completely equipped for his journey, and the servants waiting by the front door. Georgiana, who had been enduring keen anxiety during Elizabeth's absence, and had been exerting herself to keep the gentlemen occupied in eating and talking, so that Elizabeth might not be interrupted too soon by Darcy's haste to depart, gave her a nervous glance, which was tempered by relief when she saw her sister draw Darcy into the library for a few parting words. She could scarcely attend to Mr. Bertram's amiable chatter, or reply to his inquiries for Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the other friends he had met on his previous visit, for picturing in her mind what was going on in the library and trying to decide whether Elizabeth had been successful in her mission. At last the door opened; they reappeared; Darcy was grave, but Georgiana thought his brow had somewhat lightened since he went in, and Elizabeth gave her a bright and reassuring look. There was no time for more, and the carriage was already waiting; the farewells were quickly spoken, and in another moment Darcy had passed out and was gone. Chapter XXV To Elizabeth and Georgiana, the events of the evening seemed like a dreadful dream. Less than an hour ago they had been sitting at their occupations, as tranquil and secure as if disaster did not exist; and now the bolt had fallen, scattering them and bringing to each its message of terror and dismay. Georgiana felt as if it would be the hardest matter in the world to settle to any pretence of the ordinary life again, until news reached them from her brother; she longed to be able to be alone, to think it all over quietly, or to go to Elizabeth, to hear the result of her appeal to Miss Crawford, and instead she was obliged to establish herself in the drawing-room with Mr. Bertram, who showed no sign of wishing to go to bed, but was evidently prepared to sit up talking and drinking tea until midnight. Georgiana took out her embroidery frame, and prepared to be as agreeable a listener as she could, for she expected Elizabeth, who had gone to Miss Crawford, would come back at any minute, and she really felt more than a common measure of gratitude to Mr. Bertram for the service he had rendered them. This gratitude she again endeavoured to express, when Mr. Bertram began discussing the heavy state of the roads, and the consequent delays to which Darcy might be subjected. "Pray do not name it, Miss Darcy; as I said, I am only too glad to have been of the slightest assistance. It was a mere chance that I was there, for I should have returned home this week, but the open weather tempted me to stay on for a day or two longer." "It was indeed fortunate for us, for we should have had no information until to-morrow, if we had had to wait for a letter." Tom Bertram repeated that he "was very glad," looking into the fire in an absent-minded way that Georgiana scarcely noticed, so absorbed was she in her thoughts. She paid but little more attention when he suddenly rose, stationed himself with his back to the fire, and a little nearer her, and began to speak, apparently on the same topic, for in the first few minutes she could only gather an impression of his sharing in the events following the accident; his telling Mr. Ashley that he was a friend of Colonel Fitzwilliam's, and knew all his relatives, and would be the fittest person to bear the news to them; of Mr. Ashley's heartily agreeing, and of his haste to get home and order his carriage and start. The narrative went on, Georgiana hearing very little after Leicestershire was left behind, for her thoughts had lingered with the poor sufferer there, when, with a start, she became aware that all this was directed at _her_, that Mr. Bertram was trying to explain that he had welcomed the opportunity of hurrying to Pemberley, because it would doing her and her family a service, than which he could have no greater satisfaction, and because it would afford him the privilege of being in her presence once

friends

How many times the word 'friends' appears in the text?